


The Son in Splendour

by StaleMemes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bitterness, Breast Fucking, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Drama, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Rough Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Slow To Update, Strategy & Tactics, Underage Sex, War, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 47,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaleMemes/pseuds/StaleMemes
Summary: For much of his life, Jon Snow, the Bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen, has lived in the shadow of his siblings. But, when war brews and tensions within the Seven Kingdoms break out, this may prove to become an opportunity for the Bastard of House Targaryen to seize his glory...





	1. Arianne I

Arianne hadn’t been wrought with the feeling nervousness in a long time.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt her throat constrict and her body tremble with anxiety and uneasiness, so she was understandably surprised when she realised that was what her body was doing.

The royal party was due to arrive any moment. It had been well-over half an hour since the sentries reported that they caught a glimpse of a long column of riders that were garbed in the black and red colours of House Targaryen, and the banners flying high above the caravan.

They could arrive any moment now. House Martell had been well prepared for their visit. All the food and beverages had been cooked and ready for the feast, clothing and dresses were tailored and prepared for the guests, and rooms were cleaned and arranged.

Arianne twiddled her fingers, standing amongst the rest of the members of House Martell, she couldn’t wait until she could finally see King Rhaegar, the Crown Prince Aegon and his wife Princess Rhaenys, as well as Princess Daenerys. 

_If rumours are to be believed, I may also catch a glimpse of the King’s bastard._

The only person from the royal party that Arianne was familiar with was Rhaenys. She had many memories of playing in the Water Gardens with her, and had written and received many letters from her.

Of course, a long period of time had passed since then, which only made Arianne more eager to see the flowered and newly married Princess.

It felt like they were standing in the courtyard for hours until she heard one of the man near the gates yell, “The King and his party are approaching!”

The sound of horns and whistles followed, and before Arianne could even blink, a dozen riders and carriages poured through Sunspear’s gates. Despite the high amount of people suddenly appearing, there was one who quickly stood out to Arianne.

The rider was King Rhaegar, the First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

The person next to him was similar in appearance, though slightly shorter, and he wore a grin and expression full of wonder and excitement. This was undoubtedly Prince Aegon. 

More riders and visitors poured through the gates, most of them Arianne did not recognize, except for the occasional Kingsguard.

Among the incoming riders, Arianne caught a glimpse of a olive-skinned girl with dark hair and eyes who wore the colours of House Targaryen, next to a silver-gold haired girl with curious lilac eyes wearing similar clothing.

When the party finally organized themselves and the herald announced King Rhaegar’s titles, everybody in the courtyard bowed.

“Rise, my lords, please, everybody, rise.” the King spoke in a tone that offered no argument, and he started to approach Arianne’s father in strong, unfaltering steps.

As the King addressed her father, time seemed to slow, until finally he stood before Arianne.

“My lady, you must be Arianne, heiress to Sunspear. My daughter, Rhaenys had always spoke highly of you. It is my honour to finally meet you.”

Arianne’s mouth opened, intending to speak, but awe stole any words Arianne meant to say. It was only half-a-second, yet it felt like an eternity, until she finally regained her senses.

“Thank you, my King” was all Arianne could manage to say. She winced slightly at her own response, worried at how curt she sounded.

If the King cared, he did not show, as he moved on immediately. Though, it did not stop Arianne from internally scolding herself. It wasn’t until she heard the Crown Prince’s voice start to address her family before she was snapped out of her thoughts.

After kissing her hand, Aegon rose and said “The tales of your beauty do not do you justice, you are as lovely and bright as the sun!”

Arianne’s face slightly reddened at Prince Aegon’s compliments, and she curtsied accordingly.

The prince was inhumanly handsome, and his valyrian features only enhanced his high cheekbones and charming smile.

A few more moments passed before Rhaenys was finally in front of Arianne. She surprised her by giving her a small embrace, and kissing both of her cheeks.

“Dear cousin, it has been far too long since we have seen each other!” Rhaenys boomed, “The letters we have exchanged has only left me more eager to finally see you once again! I look forward to hearing more of your times at Sunspear!”

Arianne was flustered, to say the least, but she replied calmly regardless, “It has indeed been a long time, and I am truly looking forward with speaking too you. I hope the trip through Dorne did not pose too much difficulty?”

“No, of course not, this country has offered many pleasant sights. I have nothing but praise for it.”

After Arianne and Rhaenys and the princess exchanged more talk, she moved onto greeting her family.

The greetings and pleasantries lasted for most of the day, and when they were finally over, the crowd standing in the courtyard started disbanding to get ready for the feast.

As Arianne made her way through the large crowd, she thought she may have glimpsed a comely young man with long and curly dark hair that cascaded down his solemn and slightly long face, and grey eyes that were a shade away from being black.

 _Jon Snow?_ Arianne immediately thought, _Could that have been the royal bastard?_

But before Arianne could get a good look at him, he disappeared into the crowd.

 

 

For some reason, Arianne’s mind kept drifting back to the King’s Bastard.

It was not as if the feast was boring her, in fact, it was quite the contrary. 

Arianne had indulged in the cuisine that was prepared for the great feast, and ate more than she probably should have. How could she have resisted, though? The tables were completely covered in Dornish delicacies, and all of Dorne’s finest platters were displayed, ready to be devoured.

The most prominent amusement were guests, of course. The great hall were filled with hundreds of conversations told by very loud - and probably drunk - voices.

Arianne did her best to focus ass Rhaenys tired to speak to her, but her voice was lost into the jangles of noises in the background, and it was difficult to trying to pay attention, ignore her idle thoughts of the Bastard, and bat away reaching hands from those too intoxicated to remember propriety.

The best she could do was nod her head and smile at whatever Rhaenys had been saying. Eventually, Arianne guessed Rhaenys grew bored of her, and went to dance with the nearest comely young man.

She swirled her glass of wine and sipped at it absently. Even when she just sat at her table inattentively, the scent of drink was still prominent in the air.

“Greetings, my Princess,”

Arianne looked up at the direction of where the voice came from, and found Prince  
Aegon before her.

“Would you honour me in a dance?”

Arianne had drunk one or two too much, and so it took her a few seconds before she was able to process what he said, and when she did, her eyes went wide, and she stood up abruptly.

“Of course, my lord.”

Arianne tried her best to appear as graceful as she could, but she was still sure everybody could see how she was struggling to keep her balance. Her legs didn’t seem to move the way I willed it, and neither does her hands. Somewhere, deep inside her mind Arianne could hear it sending signals telling my body what to do but it didn’t seem to be listening. 

As Aegon and her danced on the floor, she could feel herself swaying left and right.

“You look beautiful tonight, my lady.”

Her reply was slow and sluggish, “Thank you, my prince,” she wanted to reply with something witty or return the flirtation, but she did not have the energy to do so.

The Prince said something more to her, but she couldn’t make anything out, resolving to just smiling and nodding, and before she knew it, Aegon was leading her off the dance floor.

Suddenly she was sitting at the same spot of the table where she sat.

Shaking her head, she lifted herself off of her seat, intending to go to retire to her chambers before she does something she may regret.

She tries to walk to her room, but her legs told her otherwise, no matter how many steps she took and how many times she repeated to herself, _I need to go to my chambers,_ she only seemed to get farther and farther from her desired destinations.

She found herself a few steps away from the porch. Arianne doesn’t know how she got there, but she did.

Her arms had a mind of their own, forcing open the doors of the porch open.

There, she finds a familiar dark youth.

 _Jon Snow,_ a part of her mind thinks.

Regardless of who he is, she approaches him from behind, ignoring her own fatigue, and stumbled, resulting in her hugging him to avoid falling.

She took him by surprise, Arianne could tell, the way his body suddenly stiffened, the way he turned his head towards her, and the look of panic, than confusion on his face were clear signs.

“My Lady?” He said, clearly puzzled. 

Arianne groaned tiredly, before simply responding, “Bed…”

Her arms quickly lost their energy, but the dark-haired adolescent quickly caught her, one hand under her breast, barely touching it, and the other on the curve of her hips.

She found herself back on her own legs, with the solemn youth steadying her. He quickly switched the position of his hands to more appropriate places. If Arianne was sober, she may have noticed the hesitance in said movement, and the slight flush of his face.

He said something to her, but she could only make out, “….Try to stand straight and walk…” and hooked his arm with hers, and lead her into the Great Hall.

Realizing this, she tried to follow his instructions, but quickly slumped and leaned onto him. The lean youth panicked, and attempted to straighten her with his elbow, but only succeeding to draw more attention towards the two.

She knew people would be whispering about this, and rumours will emerge, but she couldn’t find the energy to follow his instructions.

When the two finally exited the Great Hall. The lean young man turned to her and picked her up and carried her through the halls, occasionally asking for directions to her room.

The two eventually arrived at the door of Arianne’s chambers, and the guard looked at the two oddly.

“The princess is tired,” he explained.

That seemed to be good enough for the guard, for he simply rolled his eyes and let the two in.

Jon laid her down onto her bed, and turned to leave.

“Stay,” her mouth whispered on it’s own, barely enough for anybody to hear, but enough to make him turn around.

“Stay,” she repeated. She didn’t know why she wanted him to stay.

He hesitated, and opened his mouth to say something, but turned and left her room.

She heard her chamber door closing as her eyes closed, and drifted off to sleep.


	2. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is invited to attend breakfast with his family and the Martells.

Dorne was unbearably hot.

He knew it would warmer than the North, of course, but that still didn’t make it any more tolerable. 

Ghost seemed to reflect how Jon was feeling, though he’ll probably adapt to it quicker than Jon.

They both shared the same longing to be back at Winterfell. When his uncle, Eddard Stark, announced that the Royal Family would be visiting Winterfell, he knew immediately it meant his father intended for Jon to return to him.

He wasn’t aware that the Royal Family would be also visiting Sunspear before finally returning to King’s Landing. It was to arrange a betrothal between Princess Daenerys and Prince Quentyn, from what he heard, but the reason was still very much unclear.

Nonetheless, it didn’t matter much to Jon. All he cared about was when they would finally leave and go to a place where it was cooler and didn’t make Jon sweat through his clothes.

At the very least, Dorne’s nights were as cool as the North’s. That resemblance was one of the reasons why Jon had spent most of last night’s feast outside, on the porch. The other reason was because Jon got tired of the drunkards that seemed to surround him.

Thinking on last night made his mind drift to his brief interaction with Princess Arianne.

Jon shook his head, Best not think about that.

Jon was spending the hot Dornish morning locked in his room, taking large gulps at the cool wine in his hand. Back at Winterfell, he would usually waste no time and immediately rush to the training yard, but it was far too hot for any of that in Dorne’s weather.

If nothing else, their wine was good, though he didn’t have much time to appreciate it as much during the feast…

Again, his mind went to the Dornish Princess.

Fortunately, before it could go anywhere, his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door.

The sound made him jump, and he promptly rose form his seat, swaying slightly because of the drink, and opened his door.

He was met with one of the servants of the castle. “Yes?” he questioned.

“The King requests your presence to break his fast with.”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “I’ll be there promptly,” he said, and closed his chamber’s door.

Why would my father want me to have breakfast with him and the Martells? He thought, remembering that his father and half-siblings would be having breakfast with their cousins. Having the bastard of Lyanna Stark there seemed like a very poor decision.

When Jon was finished dressing, he went to Sunspear’s solar, where he knew his family would be.

The guards let him in with minimum questioning, and he was let into the solar.

As soon as he entered, everyone went silent, and tension immediately filled the room.

As was promised, his family was there with Prince Doran, Oberyn, Quentyn, The Sand Snakes, and… Princess Arianne.

He suspected he would find her there, though it didn’t make him any less uncomfortable. He tried to avoid her eyes as much as he could.

“Jon, we have been waiting for you,” His father spoke after a few seconds.

Jon bowed, unsure what to say.

“Jon Snow, it is a pleasure to meet you, please, take the seat next to Princess Arianne. I understand you two got… well-acquainted during the feast.” Prince Doran said.

Jon paled, he shouldn’t be surprised any rumours had emerged to what happened last night. He thought he saw the Princess shift uncomfortably, but he promptly took the seat next to her, hoping none of his hesitance slipped through.

Not long after, they started talking again, and soon the sound of laughter filled the room not long after.

For Jon’s part, he sat solemnly in his seat, trying not to show how uncomfortable he felt, and staring at nothing in particular.

Jon wondered if his father was purposely trying to make him uncomfortable, but he ignored the thought and started taking bites at his food, hoping to be excused as soon as possible.

“You were raised in The North?”

Jon turned to look at the source of the question, and was met with the eyes of Arianne Martell.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” she finished with a chuckle.

Jon found himself smiling at that chuckle, for some odd reason.  
“Yes,” he replied, “Is there something you would like to know about my home?”

She raised an eyebrow, “You don’t consider King’s Landing your home?”

“I haven’t even been there yet,” Jon frowned, “I will always consider Winterfell my true home.”

The Dornish Princess leaned closer- now only a hand’s breath away, “Than tell me about your home. Your family.”

Jon turned away, suddenly uncomfortable, “I have always been close to my… cousins, and even if they are not my family in blood, they will be in my heart. Eddard Stark has been as much of a father to me than King Rhaegar has, if not more.”

“I understand,” she said, “I must admit… Like many people south of the Neck, I have always been told that Northerners were all uncivilized and barbarians,” judging by the coquettishness in her voice, Jon judged she was probably smiling, “You are not a barbarian though. In fact, if we were going by the tales that our nannies tell us, your brother, Pince Aegon, would be more a northerner than you are.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. He stopped and snapped his mouth shut when he saw that Arianne’s family and his had stopped and stared at him. “I apologize, Princess. It’s just you remind me of my cousin, Arya… I… I don’t know why, but that just seemed like something she would say.”

She looked at him quizzically, “Oh? Tell me about her.”

Jon smiled wistfully, “She had always been so wild… She scoffed at courtesies and the expectations held at her, and was more likely to be found in chain mail than  
A dress.”

“I suppose I am a bit wilful, too,” She giggled, “I like a good time. Wine. A Fart joke…”

Jon found himself laughing, but his laugh withered when he realized his sister and Arianne’s uncle were staring at him, dagger’s in their eyes. Arianne must’ve noticed it too, as she didn’t continue their conversation.

Jon stiffly took some bites at his food, once again, an uneasy silence hanging over them.

He heard the Princess standing up, and say to his father, “May I be excused for this morning?”

“Of course, Princess Arianne, would you like my son to escort you to my chambers?” King Rhaegar asked, prompting Aegon stood up immediately, with a smile on his face.

“Yes,” She said, turning towards Jon, “If it isn’t too troublesome for Prince Jon.”

Jon’s eyes widened, and he quickly stood up. “Of course, Princess Arianne,” He responded, offering his arm. 

She took his arm, gladly.

 

If Jon were to be completely honest, Arianne did more of the ‘escorting’ than Jon did.

It has only been a day since he has arrived at Sunspear, and although he has been to Princess Arianne’s room before, he had mostly been following the Princess’ directions, and Jon had been slightly intoxicated when he had carried her to her chambers last night.

Jon wished to continue their conversation, neither of them had broken the silence yet, so he supposed he might as well be the one to do so.

“If you don’t mind me asking… Why aren’t you married yet?” He said, but too blankly, immediately regretting his words when they left the fence of his teeth. 

She looked at him with a raised brow, “Are you asking what’s wrong with me that it would drive men away?”

“N-No, I’m sorry if my question caused offence, I was just curious. You are a beautiful young women, I would imagine you would have many suitors.”

“Ah, so you’re offering yourself, Jon?” She asked, but in an amused and teasing tone that caused Jon to turn bright red and fumble on his words.

She giggled at his embarrassment, but gave a serious answer after her laughter subsided, “I’m sure you know that Dornish women have more options than those in the rest of Westeros. We are not ruled by our fathers or the other men in our life. So, I would like to enjoy my freedom and youth for now… Though I must admit, I do like to enjoy some of the features that come with marriage.”

The last part reminded himself of last night’s feast, but he ignored that memory, one again, “You refuse to marry in favour of opening your legs for strangers? How does one make such a decision?” Jon said it more nastily and harshly than he meant to, and he felt shame because of his words.

She turned her head - a hand’s breath away, “Any way a woman turns, man, a daughter is told by her father to open her legs for a stranger,” She said it without the least heat, but with the utmost conviction, “As a free young princess, I may chose which man I want, and I don’t need to be bound to him for the rest of my life.”

“A husband - “

“Is a person chosen for me to marry who I may have never even met in my life,” She turned her head.  
Jon stared at her in disbelief, _I have never heard marriage be scorned before._

She continued her rant, “Marriage from duty is like serving from duty, don’t you think?” She asked, “I would assume if you were a servant and your lord orders you to serve, you serve, whatever you may truly wish to do. When a girl’s husband says “lie down”, why then, she puts on perfume and lies down, or he beats her and does so anyway, Yes? You’re a smart man, Jon, I would expect you understand better than most.”

Jon blinked, and nodded, “Yes,,, but I’m not sure those two things are the same.”

She smiled, “I’m not entirely sure either. But when I tell other people this, they just accept that I am correct… You are truly a contradiction of the barbarism that everybody describes the North to be. As a Princess as Dorne, I must assert my authority or else men will question if I am qualified as heir, mustn't I? And I will insist that a servant should be careful of which lord he chooses to serve, and for whom, than a girl who she beds.”

Jon had to think that through, than he and burst out laughing, “You are…. You are truly like no woman I have ever met.”

“What can I say? I am a happy person, I try to spread it around. Not all are receptive, but some are,” she said once again, then suddenly stopped, “You’re a charming guest, I’m glad you came with your family. I hope we come across each other’s paths throughout your stay.”

I smiled and nodded. “I had a wonderful time talking with you,” I admitted.

She opened her chamber’s door, and looked back at him. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but they both just stared at each other, an awkward silence suddenly rippling through them.

“I… I’ll be retiring to my rooms for now. I hope we may see eachother again?”

She nodded, but looked slightly disappointed. “Yes, I hope we will,” she said, than her doors closed, leaving Jon standing outside her chambers, reflecting.

_Mayhaps Dorne isn’t so unbearable after all_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I warned you guys. Updates will be sporadic and it won't get any better.


	3. Arianne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne joins a hunting party. Stuff happens, I guess.

Silence was something to be appreciated.

That was a lesson that came to Arianne slower than others, but still came to her, nonetheless.

Her colloquy with the king’s bastard was a sort of moment that was rare whenever she talked with young men, as it didn’t end with her straddling him and the two rutting for the rest of the day.

Truly, their talk was quite different from what Arianne had experienced up to that point, it made her reflect on her attitude, and it brought out the more thoughtful and musing part of her she didn’t even know she had. She didn’t know how to describe it… Calm? Serene? She didn’t know.

Regardless of whichever word would be an apt way to describe it, it was undeniably a far cry of the merriment that she witnessed before her.

“A bear there was!”

“A bear! A bear!”

Arianne wasn’t surprised if Aegon’s voice could be heard all the way to Essos. He seemed to lead the hunting party in their renditions of Westeros’ folk songs, the makeshift choir being made up of mostly drunk men, with few of their sober companions joining in the sing-along.

Arianne thought it was quite a sight, truly, seeing the crown prince act in such a way. She was shocked even more so when she heard Princess Rhaenys’ voice join the hundreds of others from beside her, clearly having too much to drink.

It was difficult to say what led Arianne to her position, having to be especially careful how she carried herself and relying on her cousins to slap away the many drunk hands that reached too close for her comfort.

Her mind whirled through the choices and actions she’s made through the day. 

It the day after a number of members of Dornish families arrived at Sunspear, no doubt to get a good luck at the Royal Family of Westeros, and it started out with the sun shining brightly and warmly. The air much more brisk and fresh than the usual days in Dorne, it wasn’t humid and hot, as if even the weather bowed down to the Targaryen’s presence.

In such a day, Aegon declared that there must be a hunt, and so there was.

Dorne was never known for their forests, let alone the wildlife population that inhabited them, so Arianne was understandably confused when such an announcement was made.

It was only until later that she realized the purpose the hunt served was not to catch a deer or boar, but it was a sort of scheme to force Dorne and the other families of Westeros to improve their relations. It also seemed to serve giving the King and her father some privacy so they can discuss whatever they wanted to discuss, judging by the fact that neither of them were present in the hunting party.

Notable members amongst the company were the Prince and Princess. Arianne’s cousins; the Sand Snakes, her uncle Oberyn, and Daemon Sand. Some members of the Dornish families that arrived at Sunspear also joined them, Valena Toland and Jynessa Blackmont actually rode beside her, and the Fowler twins followed Nymeria closely. Young Loras Tyrell shadowed Lord Renly Baratheon, who served as the Master of Laws and was among the many nobles that had also joined the Royal Family in their visit to Sunspear. Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne stayed close to the prince, talking amongst themselves and swapping war stories. 

The Sand Snakes stayed with Arianne and the other noble ladies. Oberyn and Daemon circled them too, at the beginning, but her uncle quickly left her entourage to socialize, Daemon following suit.

Jon Snow also joined the hunting party, though seemed to be planted near the back of the party, kept far away from Arianne. 

His position amongst the band was more than likely deliberate, after Arianne’s perceived slight against Aegon, though Arianne thought that his presence in the party was counter-intuitive if she was right.

Arianne only got one good look at Jon throughout the day, though a long one. He wore his usual sullen expression, and kept amongst himself and a small clique. Amongst Jon’s coterie was Samwell Tarly and the dark and grim Oswell Whent, who both flanked his sides. Baelor Hightower’s son, the renowned Uther Hightower, known as the Laughing Sword, a skilled swordsman that shared a splendid reputation like his father. The Lyseni noble, Pepin Rouenel, was also seen near him more oft than nought. Behind the gang closely followed the disgraced one-handed knight, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

The most eye-catching member was Jon’s pet - which just so happened to be a mystical direwolf, a fabled creature that was the stuff of legends. It’s fur was pure angelic white, and it’s eyes as red as blood. It was so silent, never howling or barking, Arianne almost didn’t notice it at first. For all those attributes, it was aptly named Ghost.

Arianne regretted the fact she only caught one glimpse of the creature. She hadn’t seen it before hand, as it was mostly kept hidden in Jon’s room.

Asides from the entourage, the trees were lush and vibrant, the beauty of the woods making up for how uneventful the hunt was.

As the sun started to descend, and the skies grew darker, the men started to drink more and more. And so, Arianne found herself in the position she was now, less among skilled hunters and men, and more among laughing buffoons and drunkards.

Arianne drank much herself, but was careful to not take in too much, keeping herself from losing her wits. So far, her cousins seemed to follow her lead - except for the Targaryen one.

It was close to night fall, and her group were idly talked amongst themselves. No doubt their conversations weren’t as entertaining as others, seeing how only one member of their group was drunk, but it was all they could do to keep themselves entertained.

Suddenly, a white blur raced in front of them, and a flock of riders followed. 

It took Arianne half a second before she realized one of the riders as Jon. She didn’t seem to be the only one, as Rhaenys’ face twisted into one of displeasure seemingly reflexively, though quickly turning into one of confusion.

“The Northerner’s wolf caught a scent!” Obara shouted, pointing her spear at Ghost, who seemed to have been followed by Jon and his lot.

Almost immediately, the party members started to gather and follow them. 

Arianne sped her horse up to a gallop, her cousins and companions following. They stayed near the group, though slightly behind, keeping close to a copse.

Obara held her spear at a ready, and Nymeria kept her hand on her daggers, somewhat guarding Arianne and the others who did not wield weapons of their own.

“Do you think it’s a boar?” Jynessa Blackmont asked curiously, “I hope it’s a boar. My uncle liked to hunt a lot. He would bring back the game and the cooks would all make a grand feast of it, though it was usually hares and stags. I’ve never had boar fresh from a hunt.”

“We are more likely to reach the end of this forest before we find any sort of boar,” Obara snorted, “Though looking at the King’s bastard and his pet, such a miracle may be possible.”

“I am still find it unfathomable of how that boy could tame such a beast. He seems like the type of man whose face would turn as red as Valena’s hair at the mere thought of bedding a whore!” Nymeria’s laugh echoed throughout the woods, “We best get Daemon to take him to one of the town’s brothels. I want him to return to us with reports of how bright his pale face could turn.”

Arianne shifted. A part of her didn’t like the direction the conversation had turned, nor the way Nymeria talked of the subject in hand.

“That would be quite the story,” Princess Rhaenys spoke then, “My half-brother is quite cold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face redden. He is as frigid as a Northern Barbarian would be, if not more.”

Tyene nodded, “I doubt he’ll blush even with the type of brothels and women may be presented to him.”

“Honourable man,” Arianne decided to finally speak then, “He doesn’t seem like the one to voluntarily visit a brothel-”

“- Yes, I would think you would be the most qualified to describe my half-brother, with all the time you’ve been spending together,” Rhaenys cut her off sharply.

The kept riding, silence suddenly seemed to pass through them, Their only source of entertainment adequately snuffed out.

Arianne used the silence to quietly reflect on Jon’s relationship with his family. 

It was strained, that went without saying, but she had never seen such animosity towards a bastard relative, though she supposed that said more about Dorne’s toleration of Jon’s kind.

_Rhaenys scorned her bastard brother. She hated the very mention of him, unless it involved something negatively spoken about him. His own father didn’t seem too caring of him, despite all his efforts to appear so. Aegon was better than Rhaenys, though that wasn’t too hard a task. He seemed to pretend Jon didn’t exist._

“He is fair though,” Valena Toland admitted suddenly, breaking the ice, “Jon Snow, I mean.”

Princess Rhaenys shot Lady Valena a dark look then one at Arianne, “Oh, _shut up_ about the bastard already!”

Before tensions could rise, trumpets immediately followed after Rhaenys’ howl, silencing the group.

Not long after, the rest of the hunting party returned, emerging from the woods.

Arianne spotted Jon and his clique first, surrounded by their fellow hunters congratulating them and slapping their backs. The reason as to why soon became apparent at Ghost emerged from the forest, dragging a huge boar’s carcass and covered in it’s blood.

She chose to ignore Jynessa’s smug look that she gave Obara, and chose to stare in awe at the size of the corpse. It had been decades such a boar of such size was caught in Sunspear’s sparse woods.

She was so enthralled that she almost missed Prince Aegon emerging from the heart of the party.

“Ladies!” He laughed to greet them, “Even the fortune of catching such a great beast of the forest can’t compare to the beauty of these maidens.”

Aegon caused some in the group Arianne was in to blush, though his sister seemed to be having none of it.

“How flattering, I might blush.”

Many in the hunting party burst out laughing. They congratulated and celebrated over the caught game once again, though this time with the ladies.

The party began riding back to Sunspear, and the others talked amongst themselves with renewed excitement.

Arianne’s eyes drifted to the victors of the hunted, specifically to Jon.

He was covered in the guts and blood of the boar, pale face stained with red the colour of Valena’s hair, though it definitely did not look like he was blushing. 

Jon brushed his dark hair out of his face, his eyes accidentally meeting Arianne’s.

She smiled, and waved in both a greeting and congratulatory manner.

Jon seemed to hesitate before he returned her smile, although much smaller, and nodded in greeting, before returning to whatever conversation he had with his group.

Arianne did the same, although not quite enraptured in the chirping and babbling as she would have liked to be.

Instead, she reminded herself to run into the bastard more often.


	4. Jon II

“The Prince wants to see you.”

Jon turned his head so quickly he nearly snapped his neck. “Aegon? Why?”

Ser Oswell simply shrugged his shoulders in reply, “He’s waiting in his room with Princess Daenerys.”

Jon sighed. _At least Rhaenys won’t be waiting for me._

His half-sister disliked him, and it was mainly because she blamed his mother for her mother’s death. King Rhaegar’s actions with Lyanna Stark led the Seven Kingdoms into war. A war which involved the murder of Elia Martell by Gregor Clegane, and although Tywin Lannister claimed to have punished him after, many whispered the Lion of Casterly Rock gave the Mountain that rides to do so due to the soft nature of the “punishment.”

Jon himself was inclined to believe those rumours, considering Elia’s death left Rhaegar available to take a new wife. Which he did, and that new wife just so happened to be Tywin’s daughter, Cersei Lannister, which also helped to add more bitterness to his Rhaenys’ and Rhaegar’s already deteriorating relationship.

A part of Jon wished Elia was never killed, even if it meant he would be a constant stain to her honour, but with all the descriptions of the Martell’s gentleness and Dorne’s tolerance of bastards, he suspected her treatment of him would be kinder than Cersei’s.

_Gods, am I glad that neither Cersei or her brat of a son accompanied this trip to Dorne._

Her daughter, named Visenya, was a sweet child of 10 years of age, and no doubt would grow to become a great beauty once she grew older.

 _Joffrey though…_ Jon thought of Cersei and Rhaegar’s first born child with venom, _He is truly a little shit._

“Jon?”

The bastard prince was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the grim kingsguard’s voice.

“Yes, Ser Oswell?”

“The Prince and Princess are waiting.”

Jon pursed his lips. As much as he dreaded to learn of why Aegon would summon him, he couldn’t refuse. 

“Of course. We shan’t keep them waiting, then,” Jon said, lifting himself off from his chair

Oswell looked at Jon sceptically, “Would you like to take some time to change into more appropriate clothing?”

Jon took a look at himself in the mirror. He had only gotten back from training in the courtyard, and he had not yet changed, still donning dirty combat boots and dirt-smeared cloaks and garb.

He had always been sure to dress appropriately when he was summoned when he was still fostered at Winterfell, though for some reason doing so when summoned by the Crown Prince of Westeros felt too much effort.

Regardless being in the presence of royalty in such clothing was unacceptable, even for bastard kin, so Jon looked back at Oswell and excused himself, closing the door to get dressed properly.

He still didn’t want to bother with going through the process of putting on some of the more elaborate and embellished garbs, so he dressed simply. 

He left with Oswell for Aegon’s chambers donning a basic black tunic with a matching coloured cloak, which was attached to a brooch on the grey linen shirt that covered his tunic. His cape was folded in way which made it appear pleated, and he wore leather trousers which overlapped with his knee-length boots, which were only slightly fancier than the boots he wore earlier.

Jon walked down the corridor which he believed lead to Aegon’s chambers trailed by Ser Oswell, and following a few other Sunspear guards. 

Although it has been a few days, the layout of the castle of Sunspear was still a mystery to him.

Aegon’s room was well-decorated and spacious, as befitting a guest of his status. The walls were covered in a strange shade of red Dornish-spun finery and closets. 

As the chamber doors closed behind Jon, Daenerys quickly turned towards him, and smiled, while Aegon simply stared out a window in slight boredom. 

Daenerys was beautiful, her long silver-gold curls braided and tossed behind her back, and her lilac eyes only enhanced the intricate hair-style. She wore a red dress with black lace trim, designed similarly to the extravagant garbs Aegon wore.

Jon seemed plain compared to Aegon. His short blonde hair was finely combed, a far cry from the tangled mess of black waves that was Jon’s hair. Aegon stood a head taller than Jon, and Jon was not a short man, and was likely not yet done with his growth. Aegon had sharp cheekbones, a sharp nose, fair skin, and a strong jaw.

Aegon finally looked at Jon when he started to approach him, and smiled, “Brother,” He turned fully towards him, and poured himself and Daenerys some wine, “sit with us and have a drink. Dornish Red straight from the cellars of Sunspear!”

Jon narrowed his eyes at his half-brother, and reluctantly took a seat between the Prince and Princess.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. We are brothers, are we not?” Aegon clapped Jon’s back.

Jon hesitated, “Yes, of course. I just wonder why my brother, the Crown Prince, has summoned my presence.”

Aegon waved his hand dismissively, “Must I have an ulterior motive for spending time with my dear brother?”

“I heard you killed a great boar yesterday, during the hunt,” Daenerys piped up, “Such a feat is quite impressive. I have heard that Prince Doran wishes to host another feast tonight, with the boar as the main meal.”

“I…” Jon paused, “I look forward to the feast, if what you say is true.”

“Of course she speaks the truth!” Aegon took a huge gulp from his Dornish Red, “She is a Princess of Summerhall, after all!”

“...Right,” Jon replied, taking a sip from his wine. It was sour, more than he expected. The bitterness was so overpowering Jon could only taste a hint of flavour.

Aegon emptied his cup with another swig. He seemed to really enjoy the Dornish vintage. 

“It’s a fine day today!” Aegon exclaimed, “A perfect day for a spar!”

“Come now, Aegon,” Daenerys sighed, “You said we would just have a simple conversation as a way to get to know eachother.”

“There is no better place for a man to know another man than when they both have blades in their hands,” Aegon stated confidently, “How about it, Jon? Care for a bout? I saw you sparring earlier - you’re good, and I’d like to see how you’d fare with an opponent such as myself.”

Jon nodded slowly, not sure how to respond.

Jumping out of his seat, Aegon wore a bright smile on his face, “Great! Change into more convenient clothing, I’ll be waiting for you in the courtyard.”

Before Jon could say more, Aegon practically sprint out of his chambers.

Daenerys gave an exasperated sigh, “He never changes, does he?”

Jon shrugged, “I’ve rarely met a person who is eager to change their nature.”

“Fair enough.”

 

The Dornish sun was bright, beating down on the two eldest sons of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Aegon looked more comfortable than Jon did, flirting with some of the female onlookers when Jon arrived at the courtyard.

 _The notion of the Crown Prince and his bastard brother fighting eachother drew many spectators, it seems._ Jon thought, _Funny how quickly word spreads in the South._

Is was only when Jon had already put on his armour and picked which sword he would use that Aegon’s laughter finally died.

“Ready, brother?” Aegon crowed, “It is still not too late too back out!”

Many in the audience laughed at Aegon’s boast. 

_They don’t think I’ll beat him_ , Jon realized, _A bastard has no right to be better than his true born brother at anything._

He quickly scanned his eyes through the crowd, before getting into a stance. 

The audience was grand. The Martells were there, including the Princess and the Sand Snakes, his Targaryen relatives were also there. Daenerys looking worried at both the two while Rhaenys stared at him intensely.

_Not the type of audience one would want to lose in front of._

Jon spun his sword once, then asked, “How shall the win be determined?”

“Bah! Who cares!” Aegon helpfully replied, “First one to yield? Whatever, let’s just get on with it! The audience is waiting!”

“Eager to lose?”

“Eager to show a bastard his place,” Aegon smiled, then charged suddenly.

Jon deflected his blow, letting his half-brother regain his footing before they started circling eachother. 

Aegon held himself confidently, his movements smooth though flawed. A part of Jon’s mind was reminded of his matches against Robb. Those memories were only months ago, yet Jon felt a yearning, missing the familiar crunch of the snow beneath their feet. 

Back in Winterfell, Jon adapted to the cold quickly when he was sent to foster there. The snow taught him how to be more steady on his feet, to prevent slipping, and he trained himself how to predict his opponent’s move depending on the subtle variations of the sounds the snow made when his opponents put pressure on it, intending to attack.

Jon smiled at the thought. He never shared that secret to anybody. Memories filled his mind of Robb raging on about how Jon could have possibly predicted his attack.

There was no snow in Dorne, though. He had to be more attentive to the small signals the body gave when it prepared for an upcoming attack. 

The twitch of Aegon’s arm was so obvious that Jon almost thought he was going to fake an attack, but he didn’t, and Jon deflected it easily before shoving him away.

“Not bad.” Aegon complimented, confidence still laced every syllable of his speech.

“Than-” Before could reply, Aegon lunged at him once again. 

Jon parried, rolling around Aegon before getting on his feet once again, striking Aegon’s back.

He heard Aegon’s gasp, and tried to bring down his sword on his head, but Aegon barely dodged it, stumbling on himself. He seemed to reassess Jon, and they started circling eachother again.

“Not attacking? Come now, let’s bang our blades together again - Unless you’re craven?”

Aegon basked in the audience’s laugh. Jon decided to attack, then.

A wave of panic washed over the Prince’s face, his confidence vanishing when he returned his attention to Jon.

Aegon blindly swung, barely blocking Jon’s slash. Jon was happy to give Aegon his strikes, and Aegon could only stumble back and try to block his blows.

Jon grinned, falling into a rhythm, his sword singing in the air as he danced. 

His grin fell when he realized what he was doing, _I’m beating him. I’m better than him._

The audience was not cheering for Jon, but rather for Aegon to fight back. Rhaenys was giving Jon a dark look, and Daenerys cheered for his true born nephew.

_A bastard has no right to be better than his true born brother._

Jon slowed his swings, gradually, not obvious enough for most to notice, and Aegon was slowly able to stop his onslaught of attacks. He purposefully left an opening, and swung at the air, and Aegon jabbed him.

Jon let go of his sword, feigning pain in his hand, despite the fact Aegon hit him in his leg. 

“I yield!” Jon said when Aegon pointed his sword at his neck, and the audience roared the Crown Prince’s name.

Knights and ladies crowded around the prince, clapping his back and congratulating him on his amazing victory, and Jon returned his armour and sword to the armoury.

_Wounded pride is a small price to pay for the reputation of the heir of the Seven Kingdoms._

“Lord Jon.”

He turned to the voice, meeting the eyes of the Princess of Dorne.

“You fought well,” She said.

“Thank you,” Jon replied, returning his attention to putting away his equipment, “Though I was not skilled enough to match my brother’s skill.”

“Yes, of course, he is the Prince of Dragonstone, after all,” Her voice became odd, “His recovery was spectacular. I’m sure nobody saw it coming… Mayhaps not even you.”

Jon’s eyed widened. He turned to look back at her, “My lady, I-”

“My father is hosting a feast tonight. The main course will be the boar you caught the other day,” She said before he could reply. She turned back to join the others, but looked back before leaving the4 armoury entirely, 

“I hope I see you there.”


	5. Jon III

It’s funny how much people seemed to forget who was the one to actually catch that boar.

All around Jon Snow, he saw men calling out to the Prince of Dorne and praising what a fine meal the main course had proved to be, as if the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen didn’t exist.

Jon wasn’t seated in any notable position, being bunched up with all the other indistinct knights and petty lords, but even from there he could see men and women trying to curry favour with Prince Doran.

The more and more Jon examined his time in the Principality of Dorne, the more he realized how much he disliked it.

Granted, it was at least better than the cesspit that was King’s Landing, but really, that wasn’t an accomplishment to be proud of.

_I’m bitter_ , Jon realized, _Should I have just bested Aegon?_

He took a sip from his wine.

_No. A bastard should never be better than the true born heir._

As much as Jon disliked his half-brother, political instability wasn’t the type of thing one would trade for a boost in one’s ego.

Cersei Lannister didn’t like any child who was not her own, let alone one who she considered to be a theft of her children’s birthright. She would have used Aegon’s defeat, somehow, some way, to discredit Aegon in favour of Joffrey, despite the fact Joffrey was even worse than Aegon when it came to swordplay.

Sometimes Jon wondered how he could possibly survive the rest of his life living in the Red Keep. It wasn’t just his Targaryen family, but the many advisers and royal retainers that roamed the castle. Although he supposed the company of his friends would make it bearable, for the next few decades, Jon would have to dwell with the likes of people like the Kingslayer and…

“Jon Snow.”

Jon glanced at the source of the voice. _What a coincidence._

“Jaime Lannister.”

“You put on quite the show, this afternoon,” the Lannister said, “It was quite the… performance.”

“Hmm,” Jon wasn’t in a very talkative mood, especially if he were to have a conversation of his earlier spar.

“You’re a good swordsman,” the Kingsguard struggled to pull out his chair for a second due to his disability, “You’d make a fine knight, mayhaps even a Kingsguard once you grow older.”

“You honour me.” _You have no honour._

The Lannister knight narrowed his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. For your information, I wouldn’t say there is much honour in purposely losing a match.”

That caught Jon’s attention, “How did you know?”

The Kingslayer took a drink from his wine, “How did I know what? How did I know what you were thinking, or how did I know you threw your spar with Prince Aegon?”

Jon furrowed his brow, “Both, I suppose…”

He snorted, “Don’t think you’re the first one to gaze at me so spitefully. No, I’ve had enough of that from your uncle. Funny how it is. Most people value meaningless words and oaths over the lives of thousands of people,” the Kingslayer emptied his cup fully, “As for the latter, I’m not the only one to notice Aegon’s sudden win.”

Jon readied himself for what he was about to hear next, “Who else?”

“Oh, just the entirety of the Kingsguard. A few of the more experienced Lordly warriors, and the Sand Snakes too…” He glanced at Jon, “I heard Oberyn and Arthur Dayne talking of it with the King, too.”

Jon winced, “I’m assuming you’re not just here to chide me on my poor acting, then?”

“No,” the Knight said, “You are to hear of this from a more… noble individual, but I decided I might as well tell you beforehand, whether you would believe it or not.”

He filled his cup once again, than emptied it just as quickly, “You are to squire for me.”

_What?_ , Jon’s eyes widened, “You?”

“Aye, I was surprised too, when I was told,” the Kingsguard, “Always did assume old Oswell would take you under his wing.”

Jon sat there, shocked. Suddenly, he finally found himself laughing, not only getting strange looks from the Kingslayer, but also from others around him.

“What’s so funny?” the Kingsguard demanded.

“This all sounds like a joke,” Jon replied, “A disgraced, one-handed knight and his squire, the King’s bastard.”

Jaime Lannister looked at Jon Snow quizzically, before he joined his laughter with Jon’s

“I suppose it is a bit comical, isn’t it?” Jaime laughed, “the Kingslayer and the bastard squire…”

Their laughs rang through the hall, disturbing all.

_The Kingslayer and the bastard squire…_

_The bastard squire…_

_The bastard…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considerably shorter chapter than usual. Oh well.


	6. Arianne III

"... And so I let him believe he was besting me, buying me time, and when I saw an opening - my half-brother’s grave mistake - and at that moment I knew I had won!”

Aegon’s voice rang through the hall, eliciting cheers and laughter from the audience he had gathered.

Arianne, for her part, did her best to seem impressed.

“My Prince, your victory was swift and glorious. It seemed you were on the verge of losing - tell me, how did you muster the strength to defeat Prince Snow?” She asked innocently.

Rhaenys, who had just been speaking to Daemon, suddenly glared at Arianne for the title she gave to Jon.

Aegon hesitated, “Why, it was the beauty of the fair ladies in the audience that gave me courage.”

Most of the women present in Aegon’s audience giggled and blushed.

“Though, no lady is as comely as my Lady Wife,” Aegon grabbed his sister’s hand and smiled, alleviating the dark look she had been giving Arianne.

Arianne decided she had enough of the Prince’s misplaced gloating, bracing her hands on the arms of the chair on which she sat.

Suddenly, laughter ran through the Great Hall, and it did not come from Aegon’s entourage. 

Arianne scanned her eyes around the room, trying to find the source of the laughter, before finally resting on a certain dark youth and his kingslaying companion.

They seemed to laugh hysterically at some unheard jape, drawing the eyes of many of those attending the feast. 

She realized she almost forgot Jon was the one to catch the boar, which many of the lords and ladies feasted upon. In the time elapsed since the slaying of the boar, nobody’s esteem of him seemed to have been risen.

Jaime Lannister soon left Jon’s side, presumably intending to join the King’s circle. Arianne immediately took the opportunity to latches upon his presence, walking over to the empty seat vacated by the Lannister knight.

Just as she was only about a few inches away from joining Jon’s side, a few coughs drew Arianne attention away from the comely youth, where an easy smile waited for her.

“Princess Arianne,” Lord Renly Baratheon said, “Would you honour me in a dance?”

_No_ , she wanted to say, glancing at Jon, but hesitated when she saw how handsome he was.

_Aegon is handsome_ , Arianne scolded herself, _And look at how he swaggers around._

The reason why Arianne liked Jon so much was because he didn’t swagger around like most men who knew how handsome they were, yet she still hesitated. 

_Handsome men really are my greatest weakness_ , she thought to herself, placing her hand into the broadly-built man, “Of course.”

As they aligned their bodies together, Arianne noted how muscular the Baratheon was, realising just how slim Jon was compared to other men.

_It’s because he’s still a youth,_ Arianne thought to herself, _He has yet to grow into his body. Besides, he isn’t so skinny as Daemon or Dalt was when they were his age. He’s lean._

The pair fell into step with the rest of the floor, swaying and moving with all the other assembled guests. Although it should have been fairly late by then, Arianne still danced with the practised grace she always rehearsed when she was younger. 

Fortunately for her, Arianne hadn’t drunk so much the first night they had a feast, when they were welcoming the newly arrived royal party.

“You’re a very good dancer, Lord Renly,” She tells him, an compliment innocent enough, “I apologize if my height has been a problem,” Arianne knew she was never a particularly tall woman, inheriting her mother’s shortness, “It is very gracious for you to take it into consideration, have you had much experience dancing with women?”

The Baratheon’s eyes glittered with a troubled look, “Many thanks, my lady.” He didn’t seem to want to answer Arianne’s question, “You look beautiful tonight, Princess.”

If he really meant it, she couldn’t tell, “Thank you, my lord. You look very striking yourself.”

He nodded, a smug smile suddenly graced his face, “Thank you, my lady, I’ve been told.”

Arianne forced a smile on her face at his vanity, only managing a small one, “Of course. I’m sure many ladies are vying for you hand as a young man of --,” she paused, studying his features, _He is not mistaken in having such pride in his own looks. He is undoubtedly handsome_ , “-- Twenty?”

“One and Twenty,” he corrected, not returning the question to Arianne. She notes he didn’t seem to be very interested in her, generally.

Arianne decided to abandon the topic of his comeliness, “Ser Loras was your squire?”

His face seemed to light up at the mention of the Knight of Roses, “Loras? Yes!”

“He has distinguished himself quite a bit in tourneys, it’s been a while since one so young has earned the reputation of being such a valorous knight.”

His grin grew at every mention of the lithe Tyrell, almost as much as when Arianne had been complimenting his looks, “Handsome young lad. Some are saying Prince Aegon will give him a place in the Kingsguard, he definitely deserves it.”

Arianne nodded and smiled as she pretended to listen to the tall Baratheon’s odd rambling of how much he adored his former squire. As the music started to slow and halt, their pace slow down with it.

Taking her by the arm, he escorted her from the floor, still going on about Ser Loras. Arianne detached her arm from his immediately after, searching for a certain princely bastard.

She found him sitting in his chair, alone with his eyes closed. 

_How odd_

“Jon?” Arianne intruded, but got no response, _Is he asleep?_ “Jon?” she asked again, but this time she got a response.

He gasped, suddenly opening his eyes which darted around panicked, before finally landing on her. Realising who she was, he hastily rose form his seat, nearly toppling the table and his cup of wine. 

He didn’t seem to have drank much, which made it even more confusing to Arianne as to why he would have been asleep.

“Princess Arianne.”

“Jon,” She gave him a small smile, “Would you care to dance with me?”

He nodded, taking hold of Arianne’s offered arm. The bastard escorted her back onto the floor, ignoring any whispers and disapproving looks.

They aligned their bodies together, similarly to how Renly and Arianne did earlier, and they darted and danced around other dancing couples. Jon periodically shifted his body and his cheeks were slightly reddened, clearly uncomfortable, but for whatever reason, Arianne knew not.

_Does he not have much experience dancing with women?_

“Are the festivities boring you?” She asked, trying to ease the tension in his body, then elaborated, “Were you asleep?”

He chuckled awkwardly, “I guess I was,” There was a perturbed look in his eyes.

“Have you befriended the Kingslayer?” Arianne asked, abandoning the topic of his tiredness.

“What? No. No, I wouldn’t say that,” Jon shook his head, “Though I will admit, I suppose he is better company than nothing.”

“Have your friends retired early?”

“Most of them left, actually,” The youth frowned, “Samwell had to leave this morning. He is being forced to join the Knight’s Watch by his father. Uther left for Oldtown not long after, and Pepin is trying to stay close to my father. Says he trying to do business with him on behalf of his father, and he’ll have to leave soon, too.”

He shifted again, “How about you? I would think the Princess of Dorne wouldn’t be lacking in company?”

“And what makes you think I’m lacking in company?”

“Well,” He hesitated, “Bastards aren’t the most prestigious company, even if we are in Dorne. Are my brother and sister not entertaining you?”

She grinned, “What if I told you I prefer your company to your siblings?”

He returned her grin, “Then I would tell you that you made a wise decision.”

They both laughed together, Jon twirling her once in time with the music. Despite the alleviated tension, he still looked slightly uncomfortable once Arianne latched back onto him. She caught his eyes darting down, and curious, she followed where he glanced, seeing her vast bosom squeezed against his chest. _Ah, I see now_ , a devious grin slowly formed on her face.

She didn’t know what possessed her to decide she wanted Jon Snow, then. Was it because of his comeliness and youth? Was it because she had went for so long without bringing him to her bed, despite the fact she sought his company so frequently? What ever it was, her carnal desires took control of her.

He twirled her once again, but this time he backside lingered just a bit longer than necessary, before leaning back into Jon’s embrace, thrusting her breasts tighter against his chest as she smiles seductively.

“It was very exciting to see you spar with Aegon, despite the outcome,” She teases, “You move gracefully with your sword.”

Her innuendo was not lost on Jon, whose eyes widened in disbelief, with his mouth agape. 

As the music slowed to a halt, so did their pace.

“Do you need me to guide you back to your chambers before you fall asleep again?” Arianne jested only slightly, a plan formulating in her head.

The comely youth pursed his lips, hesitating before he spoke, “I… Yes, I suppose I should retire before I collapse again, I am feeling a bit fatigued. I still am not sure of the layout of you home, so I would appreciate if you guided me, my lady.”

She took his wrist in his hand, digging her breasts deeper into his side. Arianne led the subject of her desires through the Great Hall’s exit and through the corridors of Sunspear. 

“Princess?” 

Arianne turned to Jon, smiling at him brightly, “Yes?”

“I… I’m not sure this is the way to my chambers…”

“No, it isn’t,” She looked around them, finding the hallways unpopulated except for her and Jon.

Before he could react, she bumped her hips with his, shoving him lightly onto the wall. He gasped, not expecting her actions, and especially not expecting her to dropping to her knees before him, taking his small clothes and breeches with her.

“P-Princess!” he pleas, “T-This is hardly appropriate.”

Arianne only hummed in response as she took his cock in her hand.

“Please… I must not dishonour you…” He begs weakly, “I must not dishonour you with a bastard…”

She couldn’t help but smile at his ignorance, though she couldn’t blame him, _He is a handsome boy, but a boy nonetheless._ Looking up at the boy, Arianne said, “Oh, Jon, but what I’m about to do won’t result in a bastard.”

Before he could question her, she engulfed his manhood in her jaws.

She set upon him with ferocity, and jerked her hand along his shaft, his moans encouraging her as she did so. She tosses her head back and forth along his cock, taking him all the way until her chin touched his stones, and starts removing her lips from his cock, stopping only to lick at his tip savagely and suck at the precum that started to accumulate there.

Taking a few deep breaths before setting upon him once again. He seemed to shift and gasp restlessly, running his hand through her hair, when she pushes his foreskin back, moving her tongue in slow and calculated moves.

Finally, she slipped him out between her lips, though she didn’t let him rest for one second, nibbling at softly down his underside and trace the vein there with her tongue until she reached his sack.

She continued to caress his cock with her hand, her spit providing a natural lubricant, and he gasped and grunted all the same. Despite his involuntary moans, he still resolved to keep himself quiet, probably not wanting to make too much noise.

His resolve was broken when he moaned loudly, jerking his hips and gasping as she caressed his balls with her graceful tongue, while her hand still pumped his erect cock, which rested on her head. 

Any resistance the comely bastard’s had was completely crushed when Arianne took his whole sack in her mouth, sucking and running her tongue around him just as she did with his rod. With that method, she knew it wouldn’t be long until Jon would reach his climax.

Arianne was right, as it only takes him a moment until he is starting to reach his peak. 

“Arianne,” he gasps weakly, “Arianne, I’m going to-” his announcements spurs her on, and soon he let out a long, loud moan.

She doesn’t remove herself from him until the end of his moan, admiring the beautiful mess he had created along the floor and the wall parallel to the one he had slumped on.

Arianne smiled to herself, proud that she was the reason for the impressive amount of seed that dribbled down the wall and pooled on floor.

She looked back over her shoulder, seeing Jon slumped on the wall and his eyes closed due to both pleasure and fatigue.

Satisfied with her work, she decided to say goodbye to Jon. 

“I hope you sleep well, Jon, “ she said, and retired for the night.


	7. Jon IV

In his dreams, he wasn’t a bastard.

He was a man as glorious and great as people like the Young Dragon, Aegon the Dragon, the Dragonknight…

Men great and small followed him into battle, riding underneath his banner, whose design shifted and varied in every dream. Sometimes he took his a version Targaryen family’s arms, sometimes it was a direwolf of House Stark.

Other times, it was a golden sun, glorious and in it’s splendour. He never knew why, or what it meant, but it made him feel proud, it made him feel glorious, it made him feel like a sun in splendour.

His dreams and his feeling of glory ended every time Jon woke up. He didn’t wake up as a glorious son, but the shameful bastard - a taint on the great Rhaegar Targaryen’s honour.

This day was a day not different from all the others, except this time he was greeted by the morning with a pounding pain in his head. The skies had still been dark and sullen, signifying that most people would most likely still be in their bed.

Jon had always been an early riser, eager to begin his morning. Though for some odd reason, he felt like it would cost him his life if he tried to rise up from his bed. From what he remembered, he had not drink that much last night, during the feast. Though, admittedly all he remembered was Princess Arianne’s… 

Jon groaned, shifting in his bed to accommodate the sudden rising he felt near his pelvis. He tried to take his mind off from the image of the Dornish Princess, and attempted to gather up the energy and courage to get up and get ready for the morning, though failing.

_I’m a bastard. Nobody will miss my company. Sleeping in for a few more hours won’t hurt anybody._

And so Jon laid there, defeated by his own laziness. His consciousness drifting, leaving Jon’s own body…

He gasped, his tiredness immediately swept away, and his eyes darted around his chambers. Jon anxiously forced himself up from his bed, his bedsheets tangling around his legs, causing him to trip and fall face-first into the floor.

A loud rip echoed through his room as he tore through his bedsheets in his efforts to feel himself stand on two legs, adrenaline pumping through his body as he tasted the lasting flavour of blood on his tongue. His senses felt enhanced as his consciousness hanged in a limbo between man and wolf.

Just as suddenly as it appeared, the ravenous blood-thirsty hunger disappeared as he stood on his two legs. 

His breath was ragged and panicked, though the rest of his body was starting to calm down. It was then when he realized how he must’ve looked; a tired, haggard-looking bastard struggling to do even the simplest tasks, such as rising out of bed.

 _I’m going insane,_ Jon let out a dry laugh. He could imagine Rhaenys’ or Cersei’s reaction in they saw him in this state, _The bastard believes he’s turning into a wolf!_ He imagined Rhaenys’ shrill voice saying, or Cersei’s petulant roar.

Jon ran his hand through his dark waves, and decided he might as well get ready for the day. After all, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to rest easy after his… episode.

The hallways of Sunspear seemed dark and dour, a stark reminder of how early it was, in the morning. 

Jon’s steps echoed loudly, reminding Jon of the lack of people roaming around the halls. No servants, or lords, ladies, nor knights had been awake at the same time as Jon.

Jon Snow walked alone, through the hallway. No one at his side, not Samwell, not Uther, nor Pepin. Each step he took, the hallway’s walls seemed to grow darker and darker, but Jon walked on with grim determination. His path was lonely and isolated, and once he reached the end, arriving at his destination, it gave him no happiness.

In the distance, Jon could hear Ghost let out a bitter howl. 

The courtyard was as dreary as the hallways. The only people there were inanimate and made of hay, and were made to be hit by Jon’s blunted sword. 

Through different eyes, he saw more life than he did on the courtyard, swinging his sword at practise dummies. Birds sang, and the branches crunched under the hasty steps of prey. 

His eyes were sharper and saw more than it ever did, and his nose smelled every different odour and scent of Sunspear’s woods. And when he caught and bit into the deer, the meat tasted more sublime than the most intricately carved steak.

“Ser Jon.”

Jon felt himself blinked, and realized someone had called his name.

When he returned to his human body, he saw, to his horror, that the skies were clear and bright, and the courtyard was bustling with activity. A far cry from the desolate and dark morning he had been in what seemed like only a moment ago.

_Gods, how far gone am I?_

“Ser Jon?” He heard the Knights of Flowers repeat once again.

Clearing his throat, Jon responded, “Yes, Ser Loras Tyrell?”  
Upon hearing Jon’s response, a smile stretched across the Tyrell’s face. He held his helmet under his armpit, “I see you are as early a riser as I.”

“I suppose I am.”

“Yes, I’ve always liked a nice bout in the morning. It’s something about the adrenaline and rush waking you up that has always given me an unquenchable thirst,” he turned around, pointing his tourney sword at some men laying on the ground, visibly injured, “Though, there are few like us, ad I have yet to cross my swords with a worthy opponent.”

He turned back to Jon, “My cousin Uther has said admirable things of your abilities as a swordsman, Although I have seen you fight the Crown Prince, I wish to judge for myself.”

_Gods, I didn’t even notice anybody joining me on the courtyard… I truly am going insane…_

“So what say you, are you up for a round?” He paused for a second, his lips quirked up to form a small smirk, “One with a worthy opponent?”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Ser Daisy, pursing his lips before accepting.

As the knight led Jon onto the middle of the courtyard, a small crowd started to gather, significantly smaller than the one that had assembled to watch Jon and Aegon clash swords, though it was likely more would come to watch. Especially if Renly Baratheon joined them.

“First to yield?” Jon asked.

Loras donned his helmet, and took a couple practice swings with his blade, “If you wish. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Jon replied, putting on his own helmet he picked from the armoury, and got into his stance. Loras Tyrell, at least, is polite enough to ask whether or not Jon was ready, unlike Aegon.

They circled eachother, neither wanting to make the first move. Loras Tyrell’s movements were sleek and smooth, his gaze sharp and focused. _He’s better than Aegon,_ Jon realized.

As Jon predicted, the crowd accumulated more people. He took a moment to take his attention off of his opponent to examine the gathering audience. Renly Baratheon was there, predictably, no doubt to watch his former squire win a dual. Rhaenys and Aegon were there, and judging by the look on their faces, they desperately wanted Jon to lose. Daenerys was there near Loras’ sister, and all of the Martells were there, even the Sand Snakes. The entirety of the Kingsguard watched on, accompanying, to Jon’s dismay, King Rhaegar Targaryen.

His body tensed at the realization of his father’s presence, his movements wavering and disrupted by panic.

Loras noticed, and lunged so quickly that by the time Jon’s eyes had met his, he was already upon him.

Jon barely brought his blade to meet his opponent’s, parried, and spun on his feet, placing space between him and Loras. It didn’t do much, as Loras simply turned towards Jon, swinging his sword and taking advantage of the momentum of his sharp turn.

He deflected the Knight’s blow once again, grimacing while he did so, but forcing him to shove the Rose away. He couldn’t afford the Knight of Roses to get into a rhythm of strikes, where he might overpower Jon if he continued to swing at him with the same strength as he did with the last two.

“You’re good.”

Jon didn’t humour the Tyrell with a reply, instead lunging at him.

To his satisfaction and surprise, and managed to land a blow on Loras’ side. The Tyrell grimaced, giving Jon a strong strike in retaliation, knocking the air out of Jon’s lungs.

The Knight of Roses lifted his sword up once again, and brung it down to hit Jon again. Jon parried and deflected the blow, and tried to return it, only for it to be blocked by Loras once again.

The two swordsman traded blows, both blocked each other’s strikes with equal skill. A comparison between Aegon and Loras was not fair in Jon’s eyes. Nor could he compare this match with Loras with any match he has ever had.

Robb and Aegon were both muscular and strong, but with speed and skill Jon could defeat either of them any time of the day. Theon Greyjoy was lean like Jon, except taller and older, and slightly more muscled. But Theon’s skill was with the bow, and was a babe swinging a stick when compared with Jon. Pepin was skilled, but was not a particularly strong swordsman, from what Jon has observed. 

Uther was closer in skill with Jon, if not better. Though, he was older than both of them and far more experienced, so that wasn’t a fair comparison, and the bouts Jon had with him was nowhere as exciting as the one he had with Loras about now.

Loras was lithe and slender, closer in stature with Jon. But he was undeniably more skilled than Jon. Just as quick as him, Jon was amazed at his own abilities for helping him fight Loras for as long as he did. 

Their fight must’ve seemed like a storm of swords to any onlooker, as their blades sang and flew. Jon had not realized he had been grinning, _This is the type of fighting I live for._  
They slashed and lunged at eachother, for how long Jon didn’t know. He didn’t care, as all his attention was focused on blocking and dodging Loras’ sword. They were both in their own rhythm of strikes, though neither of their strikes landed a good blow.

The few sounds of clanging armour were always quickly drowned out by the songs of their swords, either the _bang_ when they were knocked together or the whispers they made when they were swung in the air.

Jon never found himself thinking, he didn’t have any time. All he could do was let his body guide his movements and actions. At this point, he didn’t care whether who won or lost, he would have been satisfied with seeing the end of the match…

Suddenly, Margaery Tyrell flung herself between the two. Loras immediately stopped himself in the middle of his lunge, as to not hurt his sister, and Jon stilled himself at the sight of a pedestrian caught between thee. 

“Enough, good sers!” Jon heard his father call out, “Let us call a draw. Well fought, both of you, but I’m afraid the Wall will melt before we see the end of this dual.”

He didn’t realize how tired he had become, until he shook hands with the Knight. Peals of laughter flooded around the two, as men and women clapped their backs and complimented them on their skill.

Jon suddenly felt Ghost’s presence as he came to his side, scaring off much of the people who had been around him. Though who remained at Jon’s side simply stared dumbly at his wolf in quiet fascination.

“He’s you pet?” Jon heard Margaery Tyrell ask, turning towards her.

“No,” He hesitated, “I don’t think that would be the right word…. Companions, more like. Would you like to touch him? He won’t hurt you.”

She stared into Ghost’s crimson eyes. “Even so, I have never seen an animal act so obediently,” She commented as she ran her soft fingers through his soft white fur. Jon got goosebumps. “I’ve heard from many different kennel masters that even the most subdued horses and hounds take several months to be trained. But, your wolf… wolves can’t be tamed, let alone one this large. Seeing your wolf so inclined to you is… it’s strange.”

Jon realized that it was indeed peculiar, at that moment. He never gave too much thought to the obedience of the Stark direwolves.

“Jon,” he heard his father’s voice call to him, “Jon, walk with me.”

He tensed at his father’s command, but said his goodbyes to Lady Margaery and followed, all the same. They walked next to eachother, a tense silence hung between the two as they walked through the halls of Sunspear.

“You’re a good swordsman,” he told Jon, “I see Oswell taught you well.”

“Winterfell’s master-at-arms also played a good part in my training.”

“He did well, then,” Rhaegar sighed, “Do you wish to become a knight?”

 _Ah, so this is what this is about,_ “I’ve never given it much thought. The Kingslayer has already told me your plans of having me squire for him.”

“So he has,” The King nodded in confirmation.

“Why him?” Jon gave voice to the question he held onto since Jaime Lannister told him. 

“Jon,” he turned to look at him, “I know I have seemed…. callous to you ever since I arrived at Winterfell, but I want you to understand that I loved your mother. Whenever I see you, I see her. I was not with her when she died, I had just killed Robert Baratheon. When I heard she had died… I didn’t believe it….”

Jon didn’t know what to say, and so decided it would be safer if he stayed silent.

“When I first fell in love with her, she had always so lively. So bold and full of life, even at the tower. I could have never imagined her dead.”

He stopped suddenly, and so Jon stopped with him.

“Our actions costed millions of lives. It took years before I could stabilize the remnants of what my father left me. When I arrived at Winterfell, it wasn’t just to take you back, but to also gaze upon the statue of her in the crypts. I never did. I was too scared, as foolish as that makes me sound. I was scared that I would be reminded of the piles of bodies and all the battles that was the price of our love - our _foolishness._ ”

His father’s eyes seemed to linger on his face before he turned away from him, continuing walking.

“I don’t want you to think I regretted my love. I never did for a second, even when I laid my eyes upon her dead corpse. But… It costed so much. Just the thought of her nearly makes me collapse in tears, and because you remind me of her so…” Rhaegar let out a long exhale, “The Seven Kingdoms was in tatters when I was crowned. I needed to be seen as strong so I could sew the remains back together. 

“Even now, I don’t know why I see it so necessary to guard my emotions when I lay my eyes on you, but I want you to understand… You are my son, Jon and there is nothing anybody can do to change that. My advisers stopped me from legitimizing you, and they stopped me again when I wanted you to squire for Oswell. That was the original plan, but I had to settle on giving you to the Kingslayer. I understand if you despise me. I felt the same of my father, so I cannot judge you.”

Jon felt his stomach tighten. He felt as if he should say something to his father, to comfort him. But, he was rendered speechless. He had always wanted to scream at Rhaegar for his negligence, but he never imagined he would openly talk to him of such personal things.

“I… father, I don’t hate you. I don’t think I could ever hate you, no matter how much I thought I did. It’s just… my time in the North was amazing. The Starks have grown so close to me that it has caused my feeling of you to distort.”

Rhaegar opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. They walked next to eachother in somber silence, neither of them knowing how to continue a conversation with each other.

“I plan on giving you Harrenhal,” he said suddenly.

Jon turned to him, “What?” 

“Shella Whent has died recently, with no heir. I have talked with Oswell, and he has agreed with this arrangement. I have not told anybody else, not even Jon Connington, but I know they will definitely object quite harshly once I have told them, but I promise you I will not be swayed. I will send builders and servant to tend to and replenish the castle. You will be officially made the Lord of the castle once you have become a man.”

Jon felt simple with him mouth hanging open so dumbly. Harrenhal was a grand and prestigious castle with huge tracts of fertile and rich lands. Although many whisper that it’s cursed and bewitches any who holds it, it is undeniable that whoever held it would be one of the largest landowner s in Westeros. The mere notion a young bastard would be given it would make even the most genius maester’s head spin.

“Hopefully, you will be able to start your own House and branch of House Targaryen. You will have your own coat of arms and loyal men, and if the gods favour you, a beautiful and highborn wife who will bare you many sons.”

Jon’s father stopped once again, but this time he held Jon’s shoulders, forcing him to look at him. Rhaegar’s eyes bore into Jon’s intensely, “I know that this castle will make up for the years I have been absent in your life. Nothing can, and I know that… But, I’m giving you this as the man who loved your mother, and if I cannot give you my name, then I will give you the means to make your own.”

There was so much Jon wanted to say, but he could not shape his thoughts into adequate sentences. After a few seconds of silence, Jon thought it was time eh should respond, putting on a serious and solemn tone, “Thank you, father. I promise I’ll serve the Iron Throne faithfully as a loyal servant and banner man.”

A rare smile stretched across his father’s face, “Good, Jon. Promise me you’ll keep to your words. Promise me you’ll make you own name. Promise me you’ll become a better ruler and father than I ever was.”

“Promise me, Jon.”


	8. Arianne IV

She found herself enjoying moments like these more and more.

All of Sunspear’s affairs were in order, and all of the guests were off in their own leisure, and Arianne did not have to further exhaust herself with entertaining them. She enjoyed hosting the guests, but it had taken it’s toll on her.

Instead, Arianne spent her time enjoying a game of cyvasse, playing against her dear cousin Tyene Sand. It was a rare treat to be able to stop and do something considerably quieter than hunting or feasting, especially with the expectations of her father to continually organize grand parades to celebrate the presence of the royal family.

Of course, it wasn’t completely silent. Nor was Arianne in her own chambers.

If Arianne took her attention off of the game she played with Tyene, she could hear the whispers her father and the King shared with eachother in the room next to theirs. 

It wasn’t intentional, they didn’t mean to occupy the solar, which was next to her father’s chambers, to play cyvasse at the same time as they would be discussing the politics of the realm. In fact, they didn’t know, which was odd considering her father usually informed her when he would be meeting with foreign envoys, either so she knew when not to interrupt or so she knew when to listen in. 

It meant that the conversation was as much of a surprise as it was to her father as it was to Arianne. _King Rhaegar must have visited father’s room unannounced. His concerns must be kept private to only a small group of people, then._ That thought only fuelled Arianne’s curiosity.

Their whispers were barely audible. If one wasn’t intently focusing on them, they probably wouldn’t be able to make out anything. 

Right then, she instead fought off the urge to eavesdrop, forcing herself to focus on the game in front of her.

But unfortunately, Arianne never characterized herself for her strong will.

“... I am worried of you brother, particularly. He is still furious at me for remarrying so quickly, even more so that I picked a Lannister, and he does a poor job at hiding it, along with my own children.”

“I’ve never known Oberyn for his subtlety. Nevertheless, you needn’t worry about him, for he makes up for his bluntness with his loyalty to me. If someone were to rebel, it wouldn’t be him, I guarantee you of that.”

“Can you guarantee me the loyalty of the rest of your people? I’ve sown a fragile peace since I came to the throne, and even after so many years after the Rebellion, I still see Dorne’s nostalgic fondness of Elia as the loosest of all the threads.”

“Even if you are correct of my people’s lasting love for my sister, I doubt they are likely to rebel against the father of the children of Elia Martell.”

“Are my children loyal to me, though? It seems as if the stability of the Realm and my relationship with my children are more similar than I originally thought.”

“- Arianne, It’s you turn,” Tyene’s gentle hassling ripped Arianne’s attention from her father and the King’s conversation back to their game of cyvasse.

Her cousin was winning, she recognized. Despite the fact that she started to enjoyed moments like these more, she couldn’t admit she liked losing.

Tyene was better at games like cyvasse. She was much more patient in comparison to Arianne, though that wasn’t much of an accomplishment. The Sand Snake won two of the three rounds they’ve played so far, and Arianne was fairly certain the one victory she won was out of pity from her cousin.

Arianne moved one her pieces, she wasn’t paying much attention to where she moved it, but she wasn’t going to try to struggle in vain in some hopes she could somehow pull a victory on Tyene.

As soon as she lifted her hand from hovering over the board, she eavesdropped on the conversation, once again.

“.… your contacts in Essos, Prince Doran.”

“I’ve already told you, I know not of the whereabouts of your brother, My King.”

“No? I haven’t heard from Ser Jonothor in months, and Varys claims to be ignorant of Viserys' movements. When I exiled him, I thought I was taking a step forward, but it seems to have just added another problem on to my long list.”

“Could he have joined the Blackfyre?”

“Maybe, if the Blackfyre exists in the first place…”

_Blackfyre?_ That was a word she didn’t expect to hear. _Is another Blackfyre stirring rebellion?_

It was an interesting thought, the emergence of another Blackfyre. Arianne had thought there were no more Blackfyres left after the last Blackfyre Rebellion, and nearly the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms shared her belief.

“I’ve won,” Tyene proclaimed.

“So you have,” Arianne congratulated dismissively. Her eyes scanned the game board, then flicked to her cousins eyes, “Another game?”

The Sand Snake gave her a look, “Are you sure you would not rather join your father and the King’s discussion?”

Arianne smiled at Tyene, “Another game, if you may.”  
She nodded, and placed the game pieces back in their starting positions. Arianne hearkened to Rhaegar and Doran’s whisperings.

“.… he has never stuck me as one to ask for another’s help, let alone the man who stripped him of what should have been his birth right.”

“Indeed, but his claims… They are, how should I say, ridiculous.”

“What motive does the Lord Commander have to lie? If he needed help with Wildlings, he could have just stated outright in the letter. Instead… He shouts of grumpkins and…”

“- Arianne,” Tyene whined, “Please, at least try to pretend like your paying attention to the game.”

Arianne’s eyes flicked to Tyene’s blue orbs. It was hard to maintain eye contact, as her cousin sat in the seat which had her back facing away from the window. The sun was bright, shining through the glass and right into Arianne’s eyes, but also radiating Tyene’s golden hair. Her cousin looked as fair as the sun itself, and it reminded Arianne of how beautiful the weather was.

So she sat up, then, and stretched her arms, yawning. “Would you like to take a walk through the gardens?” Sunspear’s gardens were meagre in truth, reflecting Dorne’s few plant life and evergreen. Despite this, the sight of the sun ignited a longing in Arianne.

Tyene gasped dramatically at Arianne, “After I took the effort to set up the game? Oh, you wound me.”

They didn’t linger in the solar for long, quietly putting away the cyvasse board and pieces. Most of the guests could be found wandering around the hall, with seemingly nothing to do. Some courtesied to the two Martells, and time from time they would briefly praise and thank them for Sunspear’s hospitality. 

There were a bold few who flirted with the two women, and maybe even follow them for a short period. It should go without saying that most of those were eager men who were gently rebuffed by them.

Tyene and Arianne approached a balcony overlooking the courtyard, intending to cut through the area to get to the gardens, but their journey was abruptly stopped by a large crowd which seemed to have gathered around the area to watch the warriors slash and stab at one another.

“I wonder what could have sparked such attention from so many,” Arianne whispered to Tyene, dragging her, intending for them to join the crowd.

It took them a while to cut through the forest of men and women, but the reason for such a large audience soon became clear. There was no mistaking who they were watching.

Slender of physique and quick with his feat, the young Loras Tyrell wielded his blade with unprecedented skill, and so did his opponent. The young knight’s armour glimmered in the sunlight, and whenever he swung his sword, it flashed the sun’s reflection. The breath-taking sight was almost enough for someone to ignore the many times when the sword missed it’s target.

It was the Bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen who seemed to dance around the Knight of Roses so much. Unlike Loras, he wore little armour, opting to instead make use of a Dornish style of protection; thin padding made of boiled leather, with a bit of chain mail here and there. It allowed him to effortlessly avoid Loras’ strong slashes, though Arianne was fairly certain he donned such equipment because of the heat, as opposed to any strategic inclinations.

There was a spark of patriotic pride within Arianne seeing Dorne beating the Reach, like it has done so time and time again.

The two had fought many times prior, ever since their first bout, and each of their matches attracted just as many spectators as before. There was no questioning why so many would be so enthralled by their fights, both of them seemed a worthy opponent for eachother, neither of them won more than the other. Their matches always lasted long, almost an hour, if both of them were vigorous enough.

“You’ve developed a taste for that bastard, haven’t you?” Tyene asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Arianne feigned ignorance.

“Oh, don’t pretend like nobody saw you two disappear together that night. I’m not judging you, admittedly, Jon looks very handsome when he is fighting so intensely like so.”

Arianne couldn’t disagree with Tyene. She had always thought that when a man fought, it accentuated the best parts of them.

Jon’s long, slender legs danced around Loras, whose legs were covered in plate. The dark youth’s beautiful dark hair flew around the court yard as he evaded his opponent’s attacks, only resting to crown his head when Jon decided to swing at Loras. Jon’s dark eye seemed to radiate intensely while his other shined incredibly bright.

When the Knight of Roses swung at Jon’s leg, The dark bastard jumped back and returned the attack, slashing downward and throwing his shoulder against his chest.

Ser Loras grimaced, meeting Jon’s blade with his own, and they clashed their swords against each others furiously. They danced around eachother to the rhythm of their steel, neither fighter gaining the advantage.

“Shall we continue our trek to the gardens, Arianne?” Tyene tugged at her dress’ sleeve impatiently, irritation lacing her voice, “That _is_ what you wanted to do, correct? Have a walk through the gardens?”

Arianne glanced at her, “Does this spar bore you?”

She had never seen her cousin put on a outwardly annoyed look before then, “The two spar almost everyday. I’m sure we wouldn’t be missing anything if we don’t watch one.”

Arianne kept her eyes on the dual, “And Sunspear’s gardens won’t disappear. We can go any time, for now, let us enjoy this battle.”

She heard Tyene huff beside her, and heard no more protests. When she looked at where she had stood, it appeared that Tyene had left. Arianne simply shrugged, and returned her attention to the duel, leaning on the balcony’s handrail.

The match seemed to devolve into the Knight of Roses hopelessly chasing the Bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen around the courtyard, furiously swinging his blade through the air in desperation. It was comical, to say the least, and many others in the audience agreed, laughs ringing through the yard. It took Arianne a second to realize Jon and Ser Loras were putting on such a performance on purpose.

“Spirited men, are they not?” Arianne heard a sweet voice say beside her. She almost mistook it for Tyene, but soon realized she was wrong, evidenced by the lady’s soft curling brown hair, “My brother always did like to be the centre of attention.”

She blinked at the girl, before replying, “He’s good at putting on a show, it seems.”

Lady Margaery Tyrell smiled, “Indeed, he is.” 

Arianne turned fully towards the Tyrell. To be entirely honest, she had no desire to converse with the Tyrell, but she was expected to be courteous towards her guests, “How are you liking Sunspear, Lady Margaery?”

“It’s fine,” the Rose chirped pleasantly, “Though the climate is a bit too hot for me, unfortunately.”

Arianne nodded, “I understand, I am certain many other of Sunspear’s guests can relate to your discomfort. Dorne is the southernmost region of Westeros, after all.”

The Tyrell looked towards Jon and Ser Loras, “Those two seemed to have adapted to the heat well enough, it seems. I can’t imagine having such a vigorous exercise every day,” She looked back at Arianne, “I nearly fainted during the ride to here.”

Arianne joined the Tyrell’s giggling to be courteous, “Sounds like quite the journey. Tell me, what brings you to Sunspear in the first place?”

The Tyrell’s smile did not falter, “I am one of Princess Rhaenys’ lady-in-waiting, so it is expected of me to accompany her wherever. My family also urges me to find an appropriate suitor to further my house’s prestige.”

_Your family wants to sell you to the highest bidder…_ Arianne couldn’t imagine having such a fate. She was sure that if her father forced her to marry anyone, she would be furious. How Lady Margaery managed to tell her of such a thing with such glee was something that baffled Arianne.

A pause hung between the two women as they watched the fight, until Lady Margaery decided to converse with Arianne, once again. She leaned closely towards Arianne, as if meaning to tell a secret, though Arianne didn’t notice until she spoke, “Have you heard? There are whispers that the King means to give his Bastard the castle of Harrenhal.”

Arianne straightened then, and stared with wide eyes at the Tyrell, “Truly?” 

“Truly,” Margaery nodded, “Curious, isn’t it? How rumours spreads so quickly?”

Now that she thought about it, rumours do spread astonishingly quickly. Arianne hadn’t heard of such gossip, though, and she imagined a whisper of such importance would have already reached her ears.

A smile crept onto the Tyrell’s face, “By the way, Princess Arianne, do you plan to marry any time soon? I imagine there are many bidding for your hand, so it is curious how you are still unwed at you age.”

Arianne narrowed her eyes at the Tyrell, and opened her mouth to speak, but was abruptly interrupted by the cheers of the crowd surrounding the two.

She glanced at the battle, and saw a certain comely bastard triumphantly pointing his sword at Ser Loras Tyrell. When she turned back towards Lady Margaery, she catches her making her way down to the courtyard. Assuming the Tyrell means to greet her brother, Arianne decides she might as well follow her to congratulate the victor.

She soon realized that they were walking towards the same person.

“Ser Jon,” she heard the Tyrell greet, “That was quite a spectacular victory.”

Jon looked at Lady Margaery with a furrowed brow, “Thank you, my lady. Though admittedly I am not a knight.” He seemed to look around awkwardly, panicked, before his eyes landed on Arianne’s.

He smiled, and Arianne opened her mouth to greet him, but she was not given the chance to.

“Even so, Ser Jon, you fought quite -”

“Lady Margaery, have you met Princess Arianne yet?”

Arianne frowned. She didn’t appreciate Jon using her as a scapegoat to avoid the Rose’s thorns.

When the Tyrell looked towards her, she was sure that she didn’t appreciate Jon, either. “Why, yes, actually. I was just talking to her.”

Jon’s smile dropped, realizing his escape was foiled, “Oh.”

“Your skill with your sword continues to amaze me, Jon,” Arianne flattered, suggestively, “Your victory over Loras was quite splendid.”

He seemed worried, looking between Arianne and the Tyrell, “Thank you, Princess. You are truly too kind,” Jon turned to the Tyrell, “How are you enjoying Dorne, Lady Margaery?”

“Oh, my time here has been quite enjoyable. I see you’ve grown accustom to Sunspear,” She turned to look at her brother, who was currently interacting with the other visiting lords and ladies who were among the audience , “Though, I can’t say the same for dear Loras.”

Jon chuckled, although a bit stiffly, clearly still on edge. A rare thing, nonetheless, from what Arianne has observed. “Yes, well, I must give credit where credit is due, as your brother has beat me more often than naught.”

“Truly? I wonder what gave you such strength to earn such a glorious victory, then?” The Tyrell fluttered her large doe eyes, leaving Jon slightly slack jawed.

_He isn’t Aegon, you ambitious floret._ Arianne decided she wanted to put an end in the Tyrell’s grasping words, “Jon,” she started, effectively pulling Jon out of his dazed stupor, “I was planning on visiting Sunspear’s gardens later, would you like to accompany us?”

As suspected, he leaped at that opportunity, “Yes, Princess Arianne, I would be honoured to come with you to the gardens,” he said, looping her arm around his. Arianne gazed at the little rose, challenging her to continue her conversation with him.

To Arianne’s dismay, the Tyrell gladly accepted the task.

“Would you mind if I also come with you two to the gardens?” the little rose asked, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the opportunity to visit them, yet.”

Arianne desperately wanted to tell the girl off, and wipe that innocent smile off of her face, but she was sure that if she followed her heart, she would hear from her father of how she mistreated their guests. She doubted the little rose would be so thin-skinned that she would go to Arianne’s father, but for some odd reason, it seemed as if the Prince of Dorne knew about everything going on in Sunspear. 

So, instead, Arianne settled for an indirect refusal, turning to Jon, “As long as it isn’t too much of a bother for Jon,” she said, certain the relatively inexperienced youth would decline.

The bastard smiled, but as if doing so pained his entire body, “Of course it isn’t. You are welcome to in us for a walk though the gardens, Lady Margaery.”

As Jon took the Tyrell in his other arm, Arianne desperately attempted to contain her ire.

Jon stiffly led the two ladies to the gardens. Or, to be more honest, Arianne did most of the leading, and Jon simply pretended to know what he was doing, while splitting his attention between the two women. No matter how much she disliked the Tyrell’s competition for the youth’s attention, she would never wish Jon to make an embarrassment of himself.

After rounding a few corners, the trio was finally in the gardens, and they began walking down the path, surrounded by lemon trees and orchids. 

“Ser Jon, I’ve been meaning to ask you this, and I’m sorry it may seem a bit odd,” the Tyrell started, “but I wonder where your direwolf could be?”

Arianne felt Jon shiver, though for what reason, she could not fathom why.

“I myself am not too sure on the whereabouts of my companion, he usually wanders off on his own, Lady Margaery.”

Lady Margaery nodded, “That is understandable. Wolves are hardly the type of animal you want to keep cooped up all day,” she paused, and Arianne swore she saw a slight smirk form on her face, “Wolves are wild in nature, and in many ways.”

Jon stiffened, and Arianne decided impose on the conversation.

“Jon,” she started, “Have your ever played cyvasse?”

He tilted his head towards her, “No?”

She smiled, “Well, if you ever have the time, I would be happy to show you.”

Jon nodded, than smiled. Arianne ignored the look Margaery gave her.

“Why, have I gone mad, or could it possibly be that my brother has earned the admiration of two beautiful women?” Arianne heard a familiar voice call out, “Dear brother, it is hardly fair that some men die as bachelors, while you have the favour of two high born ladies!”

When they turned towards the source of the voice, they were met with the huge grin of the Crown Prince, Aegon Targaryen, and his sister-wife, Rhaenys Targaryen.

The Prince’s half-brother frowned, “Aegon? What are you doing here?”

“Why, I was just about to ask you the same thing,” he turned towards the Tyrell, “Though, I suppose I’m not so surprised to find a rose in a garden.”

The Rose giggled in reply. 

“Margaery,” Princess Rhaenys began,“I thought I asked you along with my other ladies to take my dresses that have not yet been outfitted for the weather to a seamstress in the city to be modified. Have you done so already?”

"Yes, I have done as you have asked, Princess Rhaenys.”

If Arianne recalled correctly, than Margaery Tyrell was a lady-in-waiting to Princess Rhaenys. She found it somewhat amusing that a woman of the Reach, an ancient rival of House Martell, was assigned as a companion as a daughter of a Princess of Dorne. 

Rhaenys’ Targaryen blood didn’t seem to hide her distaste of the Tyrell girl, her smile seemed forced and was more of a grimace. Arianne was in no place to judge her, though, as it took Arianne all her strength to force her not to remind Margaery Tyrell of the fate of Lyonel Tyrell.

“Well, I suppose that must mean you have the rest of the day off, then,” Aegon’s smile had not subsided at all, “My dear wife says she has some business to attend to, and was just about to leave. It is still a beautiful day, however, and I have no wish to roam the rest of these beautiful gardens alone,” He paused dramatically, “Oh, I just had a thought! Who would be more fit for the task of guiding me through this forest than a rose?”

Rhaenys gave Aegon a look, before unhooking her arm from his and leaving his company.

The Tyrell nodded, “My Prince, I would be honoured if you would allow me your company,” she said, reluctantly trading Jon’s arm for the Crown Prince’s.

Aegon then turned to Arianne, “Ah, I almost forgot. A flower requires the light of the sun in order to blossom -”

Arianne interrupted him before he could continue, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find another sun, my Prince.”

His smile did not falter, but he was clearly displeased, “Of course, Princess. It would be best not deprive my dear brother of light, or I’m afraid he’ll become even more sullen,” Aegon laughed, and Arianne giggled with him to be courteous.

Once Margaery and Aegon disappeared from her sight, Arianne turned to Jon Snow, “You seem uncomfortable,” she stated.

He pursed his lips, “So I do.”

“Why, if I may ask?”

He did not grace her with a reply.

“Could it possible be because of what happened that night?” Arianne pushed her breasts towards his arm, “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Jon tried to free his arm of her grasp, “I…”

“Jon,” Arianne purred, “I suppose I should be thanking Aegon right now. He has provided us with an opportunity to… Get acquainted with one another, like before.”

“I - by the gods, are you saying what I believe what you’re saying?” He asked in disbelief, “Right here, in the gardens? Right now?”

She smiled, cupping his groin, “You’re not saying no.”

He opens his mouth, seemingly to say something, but no words came out of his mouth. That is all the answer Arianne needs.

Like before, she kneels before him, taking his pants and small clothes with her, but this time he does not resist.

His cock sprang free, fully erect and throbbing. Arianne leaned towards it, and pulled it between her soft lips, massaging his balls with her dainty fingers. A guttural groan escaped the bastard’s throat as his fingers combed her hair. She pulled away, then slipping the tip of his cock back into her mouth, licking it like a sugary treat. He was hot and firm, and tasted like sweat and leather.

“Arianne….” he groaned when she ran her tongue down the bottom of his shaft. “Arianne….” he moaned again, and rolled his hips, forcing his cock deeper into Arianne’s mouth.

She relaxed her jaw, breathing through her nose as his cock pressed at the back of her throat. Her eyes watered as at the girth of having something so ample fill her mouth, but then she felt the wetness dripping down her thighs and moaned in delight. Peeking through her lashes, she spotted that his jaw was slacked and his eyes hooded with pleasure as he watched.

He pulled out of her lips, before sinking back into her. Arianne leaned in, pushing her plush lips lips at the base of his cock. Jon pulled out once again, only to thrust back into her mouth.

Arianne couldn’t help but moan, her eyes watering and think spit drooling from her mouth. 

Suddenly, her grabbed her by the roots of her hair, and began fucking her in her mouth, bobbing her head up and down his shaft.

Jon let out a roar, so loud that she was sure that somewhere in the gardens Aegon and Margaery heard him. He did not stop, however, even beginning to fuck her mouth more urgently than before.

Another roar escaped from Jon’s chest, pushing Arianne’s head until her nose pressed against his naval, his cock causing her throat to bulge. It was painful, yet she allowed him to keep her like this, letting him milk his hot, salty come into her throat. There was so much of it, so sticky and thick, that Arianne was afraid that some might escape her lips, despite the fact every inch of his cock was buried in her throat.

Arianne gulped it all down like it was sweet wine, every last drop, but Jon did not lessen his hold on her until well after she swallowed the last of it.

“Whatever happened to ‘I must not dishonour you’?” she asked, rising from her knees.

A flush rises to his cheeks, “I just…” she notices his eyes lowering to her bosom, “…I had a thought.”

Arianne raises her eyebrow, a smirk spreading through her visage, “A thought? Why, what thought would be so disarming that it would cause the honourable Jon Snow to lose grasp of his stoicism?”

He opens his mouth again, hesitating, “Your teats...”

She smiles at him, pressing her breasts close to his chest, “Is there something of my teats that you require?”

Arianne’s curiosity was genuinely piqued, for she had been wearing fairly modest clothes - _Well, not exactly modest, I suppose. My neckline isn’t particularly revealing, like it usually is._

Nevertheless, it meant that Jon had to have had the thought before she let him use her throat, _Oh, is that not an exciting thought, the boy has been fantasizing about me._

“I…” He starts, “I want to put my cock between them.”

“Oh?” she asks, almost innocently, “Is that all?” She drops to her knees again, hovering in front of his cock, its hardness had not subsided one bit, but the natural lubricant her saliva provided was beginning to dry.

So, Arianne lowered her mouth over the head of his cock, her tongue pushing the foreskin clear of its head before taking him all the way down to the base. 

She gagged fleetingly before drawing back, and began the long and arduous process of taking off her dress. Jon, however, preferred to waste no time and pulled her up, only to rip her the top of her dress, just enough to expose her breasts, and the cascade of torn silk trickled across her chest.

_Well, I suppose that gets the job done._

She doesn’t mind, that was never her favourite dress, and instead of worrying she immediately took her mounds in her hands and wrapped them around his length, their softness easily giving away to his rigid cock. Judging by the sounds and movements he was making, she guessed that he enjoyed the constant sliding motion she provided.

“Arianne - Fuck, I -” Whatever Jon was trying to say was quickly cut off by his moan. 

Arianne did not allow herself to worry too much about deciphering his words, and instead focused on doing her part. Remembering the taste of his seed, she tries to take him into her mouth for every downward stroke of her breasts, attempting to tease his opening with the tip of her tongue, but the angle was too awkward for her to do so consistently.

“Fuck!” she hears him say, thrusting recklessly and wildly between her teats. She knew that to be a sign of his oncoming release, and craned her neck just enough for her to wrap her full lips between the very tip. It wasn’t long until he could feel his balls tightening.

There wasn’t as much as before, but he was still spurting his seed between he lips, nonetheless, and she swallowed all of it just as enthusiastically as before. That isn’t to say he doesn’t make a mess of her, however, as much of it escapes her lips, dripping down onto her neck and chest.

They stayed like that for a moment, his prick softening between her breasts, until Arianne lifted herself up.

“Now,” she begins when she regains her breath, “I suppose you hadn’t thought ahead of time of what to do with my ripped dress.”

Jon chuckles nervously, “No, sorry, I hadn’t”

“Well,” Arianne grins, “I suppose you better hurry to my chambers to grab me a replacement before someone finds me like this.”

“Yes,” A devious smile stretches across his face. He looked almost like a different person, “Or, how do you know I won’t just leave you like this, teats exposed and my seed splashed across them, as lewd as a whore. Perhaps, I’ll even rip the bodices of all your dresses just so I can play with them whenever I want.”

Arianne does not scare easily, “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to take that wager.”


	9. Arianne V

_If I ever have to attend another feast in my life, I’ll paint the walls red with the blood of the attendants._

The scariest part was that Arianne wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. Though, in the end, she supposed it didn’t matter. 

As the date for the Royal Family’s departure from Dorne neared, Arianne’s father called for another feast. Usually, Arianne was quite the fan of feasts - but _good god_ , Sunspear’s great hall has seen three lavish banquets now, and it has only been a little over a fortnight since the royal family’s arrival, and now.

She couldn’t find anything much to do to entertain herself - she’s already danced with most of the male guests, she’s had _three feasts_ to do so now, of course. The guests she hadn’t danced with she avoided for good reason.

Men the likes of Theon Greyjoy and Harold Hardying, companions of Prince Aegon, Arianne believed. Either way, she couldn’t tell the difference between them at all, they were all the same swaggering philanderer, and if Arianne wanted to deal with those types, then she would at least engage with one who happened to be the Crown Prince.

In a way, Arianne had to congratulate herself for avoiding dancing with those men, as it was quite the accomplishment - in fact, she was surprised she’s been able to avoid Aegon’s companions as well as she has been. They were too busy prancing around the Prince, she supposed.

She was sure she has caught the Greyjoy staring at her hungrily on multiple occasions, not just during the feast. Though she supposed the fact she has caught him doing so as much as she has is partly her fault - her clothing choices were never particularly things a Septa would wear.

The point is, she has caught him doing so as many times as she’s walked onto him fucking a servant girl - if Sunspear wasn’t infested with babes with the same vain smirk the Greyjoy possessed, she would be amazed. One memorable situation Arianne found herself in involved her walking in on the boy humping a serving wench on the kitchen table, and when he saw her, he smirked and casually asked her if she wanted to join.

Arianne refused, of course. She was courteous, too, and that was important. She wouldn’t dare acting a rude host to her father’s guests.

Arianne especially dreaded having to dance with Justin Massey, remembering the time she had to endure his hand squeezing her ass for the entire duration of song.

Though, perhaps she was being a bit too petulant. It was a _feast_ , after all, she should be having fun. God knows Tyene has been nagging her about that, only to disappear into the swarm of prancing couples.

Instead, Arianne found herself sitting at her table, taking heavy gulps from her goblet, wallowing in her own boredom. Drunken revellers sang and laughed around her, spilling their cups onto the floors and tables. 

She didn’t sit at the high table, instead it was crowded by the royal family - with the exception of Jon Snow - and her father and uncle. The Martell children were seated in tables a level lower than the high table. Arianne was not particularly close to the table occupied by the King and his Crown Prince and Princesses, but still not far. She was seated in the table occupied by other prestigious lords and ladies of the guest party, such as the likes of Renly Baratheon, though he quickly disappeared from her side as soon as the dancing commenced.

If she were to be entirely honest, she didn’t know why her mood was so sour - perhaps it was the awful headache she had at that moment, caused by the deafening noise of the attendants. They were awfully bawdy and hearty, this night. She was also slightly peeved that her brother Quentyn was placed closer to the Targaryens than she was.

She desired to leave the feast, but her father had told her it was important that she stayed for the entirety of the feast. Thus, Arianne found herself with an unbearable headache, and her ire quaking with each passing minute.

“Arianne”

The Bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen voice was a pleasant surprise. When she turned, she saw the young man standing in front of her, slightly swaying. She wondered if he was drunk, for half a second, but his steady voice did not mark him so.

“You seem just as miserable as I am, right now.”

Indeed, he seemed as if he had just marched out of a great battle, with dark circles under his eyes and a generally haggard appearance. His miserable image was a surprise, if Arianne were to be honest, not just because she was so used to seeing his face ready and guarded, but also because she was just watching him a minute ago, twirling with the likes of Margaery Tyrell and his aunt Daenerys.

Well, considering the youth’s distaste for any dance that did not involve a blade, she supposed it made more sense he would seem so dejected, but she had been certain that he was drunk enough to have come out of the solemn shell he crafted for himself.

“Are you drunk?”

He seemed taken back by her question, for half a second, “Not at all. Do I really look that bad?”

Arianne snorted, “Ah, no. I just thought that you would be.”

“Well, I’m not - well, maybe a little. Aegon and Loras tried to get me to drink more, but they couldn’t,” He fumbled with his words a bit, “I don’t have much of a thirst for it, tonight.”

She nodded, “I wish I had your restraint. I have a terrible headache right now.”

“Why haven’t you left for your chambers, then?”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve tried. For some odd reason, my father is absolutely adamant on having me here.”

“Would you like me to grab you a cup of water from the kitchens? I’ve heard that water helps ease those types of pains.”

“Yes, I would appreciate that, Jon. Thank you,” She smiled at him, but right as the young bastard turned to leave, a though sprung in Arianne’s head. Another method that she believed would relieve her of her pains. “Jon,” Arianne called for him, just as he took his first step, halting his steps and causing him to turn towards her, “Could you also get some olive oil, while you’re there?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, “Olive oil? Why”

“Because,” Arianne stood, pulling Jon’s collar so his face was right next to hers, “I think a good fucking would be a fine way to relieve me of my aching. And I have an idea I wish to try.”

The dark youth’s eyes darkened, “Arianne…”

His hesitation never failed to excite her, “Jon, we both know that you will agree, and I am in no such mood to play our little game, like we usually do. Besides, who would notice if we just slipped out of the hall, just for a moment?”

He cleared his throat, nodded, and went off to do the duty that was lain before him.

The two have had many other small flings before, ever since that afternoon in the gardens. It always started with a bit of convincing on Arianne’s part, but the young man could never decline. They just had one rule when it came to their game; nothing that could result in a babe.

That way, Arianne would get what she wanted, and Jon’s adamance on never fathering a bastard would be satisfied.

As soon as the boy disappeared into the cloud of drunken dancers, Arianne lifted herself off of her seat, intending to slip out of the great hall, hopefully unnoticed and unhindered.

Those plans were dashed when Areo Hotah intercepted her.

“Princess,” He said, striding towards her, “Where do you intend to go, leaving the feast at this time?”

Arianne put on a smile, “I wish to seek my chambers. I am awfully tired.”

The broad-shouldered man shook his head, “Unfortunately I can’t let you retire for the night, just yet. Your father wants you to stay for the duration of the feast.”

She frowned, “Why does my father wish for my presence?”

“Unfortunately I can’t say. I was only given orders to be sure you stay for the remainder of the feast.”

Arianne formulated an excuse in her head, “Well, I don’t suppose you could allow me to slip out of the great hall, just for a moment? I’ve drank too much wine, and I desperately require my chamber pot.”

He frowned, hesitating before he spoke, “I suppose I could. But be sure to come back as soon as you can. Your father is insistent on having you here.”

She smiled, nodded, and went on her way.

Arianne began walking down the corridor leading out of the great hall, rounding corners that she has familiarized herself with after years of living in the castle. She practically knew every nook and cranny of Sunspear.

The hallway she sought was one she had become very familiar with, especially for the past few days. How could she not? It was, after all, the first place she tasted Jon Snow. It was isolated and quiet, especially during feasts. Most of the servants lived in the rooms connecting to the hallway, and most of them would not return to their chambers until the end of the night.

Due to the hallway’s remote location, along with Arianne’s sentimental reasons, it became the usual rendezvous spot for Arianne and Jon.

She didn’t have to wait long, after arriving. Jon quickly arrived at the location, and in his hand was a bottle of olive oil. 

Arianne greeted the youth with a kiss, before quickly removing her lips from his.

“What was that idea that you wanted to _try_?” He spoke in her ear.

She smiled at him, “I’ll show you.”

In no time at all, she was bent over, her skirts hoisted up to her hips and her undergarments long discarded, revealing the pink, puckered hole she wanted him to use.

She turned her head, intending to ask him if he understood, but as soon as she saw his face, she knew he had.

He filled his hand with the olive oil, then slapped her ample ass greedily, causing Arianne to yelp. 

Jon stroked her backside, covering each inch with a thin layer of oil, and teased her by rubbing the crevice between her cheeks, avoiding her entrance, causing Arianne to squirm. Arianne let him have his fun, waiting in anticipation for when his cock was inside of her ass. Then, she tensed when she felt one of his finger drag from one of her cheeks to his tight entrance.

“Oh!” Arianne couldn’t help exclaim when he inserted his greased finger into the hole, readying her. She was as inexperienced as he was when it came to this.

Encouraged by her pleased cries, he pressed the very tip of his finger into her, causing Arianne to quiver and close her eyes as he explored her. When he finally pulled out, she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding.

Opening her eyes, she turned to look at Jon, who coated his rod with the same thick, viscous liquid. 

Arianne shuddered, her mouth salivating as she watched Jon pump himself in his hand, before placing his cock between the crevice of her ass, taking a handful of each cheek.

“Fuck, Arianne…” he said to her slowly, moving his cock up and down between her cheeks, squeezing them together, instead of inserting it inside of her entrance, “Arianne…”

She was close to begging, her hole was extremely sensitive to the movement he had been making, though it was being denied the actual act Arianne desired so much. She desperately tried to push her entrance onto him, but her efforts were futile as he used her ass to pleasure himself.

His repeated movements quickened, pumping his cock between her ass’s crevice, and his grip on her cheeks tightened. 

Arianne whimpered when she felt his seed spray across her back, sounding pathetic even to herself.

“Jon!” Arianne panicked when she felt his cock starting to soften, still wanting it inside of her. She whipped her body around, and took him into her mouth, effectively returning it its hardness.

He groaned when she pulled him out of her mouth, and returned to her original position. She waited patiently for him, and was rewarded when she felt something enter her entrance.

She soon it was not his cock, though, and instead it was the head of the bottle which contained the olive oil they used. The remaining fluid which they had not used flowed inside of her ass hole, providing a soothing sensation to her muscles, but also a gratifying pressure.

Jon made her squeal and squirm when he started pumping the bottle head in and out of her, causing her to gasp when he suddenly pulled it out of her, and she hoped he intended to replace it with his cock. 

Just as she hoped, the youth pressed his bulbous tip into her hole. Arianne mouth widened in a silent cry, and her chest was heaving. It took a moment of him pressing before her body accepted him. From there, he slipped in effortlessly.

She died a little death when she felt his balls press up against her wet lips.

With a deep groan, he placed his firm hands on her hips and slowly pulled out of her. She cried for the lack of him and moaned in desperation when he wouldn’t thrust back. She missed him.

“Push yourself onto my cock,” he ordered.

Arianne shuttered from just the sound of his voice. Biting her lip, she braced the weight on her arms and gradually pushed until he was all the way inside of her again. Holding her hips tighter, her lover began to guide her, rocking her back and forth as he remained still. Having him use her body as he willed was just as pleasurable as his cock slipping in and out of her backside.

It wasn’t long until he joined her movements, ans each thrust sent unfamiliar feelings up her spine. He fucks her like an animal, his hands on her hips, keeping her in place, using her for his own pleasure, fucking the hole she's never offered to anyone before him, and now he was taking full advantage of all she had to offer, driving her wild with his quick and rapid thrusts.

Arianne couldn’t describe the feeling, as it was a strange mix of pain and pleasure, and she couldn’t help but ask for more. She's insatiable in her pleasure and she moans and pleads and cries tears of deliciously mixed pleasure and pain as he fucks her ass hole like a machine, with a force that she feels might tear her body apart. He drove every inch of his cock up her ass with each movement, stuffing her with his cock.

The sounds they made were embarrassingly crude, with skin slapping against skin, oil nosily sticking as their flesh met, and the panting of their breaths as they fucked, but it drove her to new heights. Sweat coated her brow as her arms began to ache, but she wouldn’t relent, not when she was on the edge of a great and wondrous feeling. 

She screamed and he felt her ass hole twitching around his cock, lightly at first, then suddenly it clenched hard around him, her stretched and abused hole clamped down on his cock, hindering its fast movements. Her whole body was convulsing in the pleasure of her orgasm and after a few moments, she could tell he was done for as well.

“Jon!” she begged, nearing the climax of her pleasure, “Fuck me!”

“Arianne!”

That is all it took for her body exploded in sweet, blinding ecstasy. Nothing could describe the raw feeling of nerves set ablaze as her body engulfed him. She cried out, squeezing her eyes closed as her body tensed. She mewed as she buckled, trying to draw out all the pleasures that her lover gifted her.

Quickly, and without warning, he came hard with a grunt and shot his come in hot, sticky sprays inside of her. She could feel his hot streams erupt out of him, causing her to squirm and whimper because of the strange feeling.

With her limbs lifeless, her mind dull, and her lower body tingling with the residue of his love, Arianne collapsed on the table without a care in the world. Just as she suspected, her head ache mysteriously disappeared.

“Arianne,” she heard Jon whisper after a while, “We should be getting back to the feast.”

Arianne groaned as she felt him lift himself off from her, his cock slipping out of her. She followed suit, however, staggering when she pulled herself up, her legs sore because of the intense act they had just partook in.   
She was reduced to relying on Jon to steady herself, though as soon as she could stand well enough on her own, she temporarily pulled herself off of him to smooth her skirts, then looked around the hall in search of where she discarded her undergarments.

She pretended to give up when she noticed a small portion of white lace sticking out of Jon’s pocket.

He looked at her expectantly, “Shall we return to the great hall, then?”

She cleared her throat, “Yes. Let us.”

With that, they linked arms again and started walking through the empty corridors. As they made their way back to the feast, Arianne felt herself shiver as Jon’s seed started to drip out of her hole, flowing down her cunt, mixing with her wetness and running down her inner thighs and legs. She tried to push all of it out to quicken the sensation, but her abused and stretched muscles shivered and disobeyed her, even her unused but wet cunt clenching in effort, and her belly still trembled slightly in pleasure of receiving his seed.

She did not linger around Jon long after they returned to the hall, and their arms disconnected. Most of the revellers in the hall were still well at it, and most of them were too drunk to even notice her brief departure and return.. Arianne did her best to walk normally, and ignore the mixture of semen and her own wetness that still flowed down her legs, leaving a small trail of fluids, but she eventually reached the table she sat in.

Now, she faced her most daunting challenge. Sitting down.

Arianne slowly lowered herself onto the hard wood surface of her chair, grimacing at the contact. Her perched position now accentuated the pooling of the juices, not helping her efforts to appear inconspicuous at all.

Taking deep breaths, she managed to appear normal.

Soon after Arianne had taken her seat at the table she originally sat at, King Rhaegar Targaryen rose from his, seemingly to lead the hall in a toast. His position in the high table and Arianne’s perspective made him seem powerful, as if he was the powerful King who defeated Robert Baratheon at the Trident once again. The King’s silver-gold hair was illuminated by the Hall’s chandelier, and his usually dark indigo eyes seemed to shine brilliantly, creating a contrast to his pale skin. If it wasn’t clear enough to somebody the reason for how he was able to lead and inspire thousands, then it was clear now.

Arianne’s father, who usually appeared as a kindly and not a very threatening man, seemed to preside over the feast like a warlord. He was still not to be confused with a warrior, of course. Her uncle seemed just as exceptional as he always did, his viper eyes and lustrous black hair were accentuated due to the lighting. 

“To Doran Martell!” King Rhaegar pointed his cup towards the roof, “May his children have fortune and prosperity, and live as long and proudly as he has!”

“To King Rhaegar!” Oberyn stood suddenly, returning the toast in place of her father, “And may our families have a friendship that lasts for generations. We are honoured to have such beautiful and lovely dragons in our hall.”

Arianne’s uncle did not make an idle boast. The Crown Prince and Princesses seemed just as magnificent as their patriarch. Daenerys was a vision of the perfect valyrian and looked as just as fair as the maiden with her petite form, lilac eyes, and pale hair. Rhaenys was dignified and noble, carrying her Dornish features with an elegant pride. She created a stark contrast as opposed to Aegon, who seemed like a younger and broader Rhaegar. 

“Yes,” The King’s smile radiated, and caused every lady in the hall to hush, “And so, I am honoured to announce a union between our two families!”

That captured Arianne’s interest, _Oh? Both Aegon and Rhaenys are married though, and to eachother…. Could it be?_

“I would like to congratulate my sister for her betrothal to Prince Doran’s eldest son, Quentyn Martell!”

And so Arianne’s hopes were crushed.

The audience was thrilled, however, and cheers and claps erupted from the crowd. Arianne looked across from her to see her brother, flushed with a huge smile spread across his face, receiving good wishes and claps on his back form those around him. He stood from his table, taking a few from it and knelt before Daenerys, who stood before him humble yet still very much like a dragon, _Ah, so that’s why he was seated closer to them than I was._ He took her hand and kissed it, and said something that was drowned out by the crowds applauds. She realized, then, why her father wanted her to stay for the entirety of the feast.

It seemed like forever until the Lords and Ladies of the hall quieted and everybody returned to their seats. Then, Arianne performed what her father expected of her, and rose form her seat. 

“To my brother!” She toasted, “And his wife! May they have many children!” She decided to keep it brief, not wanting to exhaust too much effort onto her congratulations.

Quentyn’s eyes were still glued on to the Princess, though, who had since stopped paying attention to him. Arianne couldn’t help feel bad for her brother. 

That wasn’t to say that Daenerys would make a bad wife, from what Arianne has seen, the girl was pleasant to everybody. But, Quentyn was short-legged and stocky, with a plain face and a high forehead, broad nose, and square jaw. Arianne was sure that he would be nothing but a caring husband to Daenerys, but he was not the type of man who would make a woman’s heart beat faster. Arianne was sure that Daenerys would grow to become dissatisfied with Arianne’s brother, and judging by what happened between Arianne’s father and mother, unhappiness turns into bitterness, then hatred.

“Arianne!”

She was so lost in thoughts, she hadn’t even noticed her uncle taking a seat next to her.

A wide smile spread across her face, “Uncle Oberyn!” She hugged him.

“You don’t seem drunk,” he said once she pulled off of him, “I must admit, you show great restraint.”

 _I’ve had plenty. A certain bastard just helped to alleviate my drunkenness,_ She thought, but didn’t say, “My father told me to stay for the duration of the feast, so I was sure not to drink too much.”

He nodded, “A wise decision. You’ll make a fine Lady of Sunspear.”

Arianne beamed at his praise, “Thank you, uncle.” She paused, “May I ask… Did you know of Quentyn and Daenerys’ betrothal?”

“Yes,” her uncle admitted, “But I was only told in the middle of the feast.”

“Strange. It didn’t seem like my father with bothering to tell any of his family,” She was interrupted by a yawn, “I wonder if he even told Quentyn.” She yawned again.

“Are you tired?” The Red Viper asked, “I’m sure you could retire now, that the betrothal was announced. I could escort you, if you want.”

“No, no. I wouldn’t want to have to be a bother,” Arianne rose, smiling at her uncle.

“Yes,” He returned her smile, “I still intend to drink much more. Especially now that I don’t have to keep a sober appearance any more.”  
As she made her way to the exits of the great hall, she was stopped again and again by couples dancing around the floor and drunkards prancing and stumbling around. For a moment, Arianne regretted not taking her uncle’s offer, and desperately wished for somebody to appear to help her make her way through the jungle of guests and revellers.

It wasn’t until she finally collapsed onto her bed that she realized she should have asked Jon to come with her to her chambers.


	10. Jon V

This was the type of fucking he lived for.

Arianne’s ass slapped against his pelvis each time he slammed into her tight entrance, making her cry out in pleasure each time her ass hole was stretched in order to accommodate his oiled rod. 

“Quiet,” Jon whispered into her ear from behind, though still letting out a hard grunt each time he penetrated her, “It’s the middle of the day. There are still some guests crawling around here.”

She doesn’t make any effort to follow his orders, moaning and gasping loud enough for anyone near them to hear. He supposed he couldn’t blame her being so vocal- He has been pounding her harder than he had ever done before. Jon fucked her in such a manner that he couldn’t even tell if she was screaming in pleasure or pain, but he didn’t care, he doubted he could stop even if she begged him too. It was no empty boast, either. Ever since they first done it, they had partaken in the act many times after, though not as intensely as they had been doing so now. 

It was because he would be leaving Sunspear along with the rest of the guests, this afternoon. At the end of the day, the feeling of Arianne’s ass hole stretching and loosening around his cock would be lost, and instead Jon would have to spend the rest of his life dwelling amongst people like Cersei or Joffrey for the rest of his life.

The thought filled Jon with dread, and made him wish to fill her up even more. He wished he never had to go back to the Red Keep, and instead he could bury himself in the Princess of Dorne, so his cock could be stroked by her hot, clenching muscle.

He shouldn’t have been granted the privilege of fucking Arianne in the ass, let alone dream of it - Jon was just a bastard, and Arianne was the heiress to Sunspear.

Yet here he was, using the woman of his most depraved and perverted fantasies, proving to the world that it was right about the likes of him. Jon didn’t care though, and all he cared about was the woman who was kneeling before him, so he could drive every inch of his cock into the tight ass hole of the women in front of her.

Jon should have been ashamed, and he was. He was shamed the second the he put his tip at the entrance of her beautiful ass. The Princess was so tight, though, and he couldn’t help but love the sight of it stretched to its limit and stuffed by his rod.

He felt his release approaching as she started rocking back and forth fiercely to take his cock inside of her body, doing so more enthusiastically each successive thrust. So he kept on ramming himself into her ass, her body effortlessly receiving it each time his cock disappeared into her ass hole.

They went on and on, neither of their bodies falling out of sync. Their oiled bodies colliding against each other without pause the abundant oil splashing everywhere around them as his cock slipped in and out of her with a delightful ease, slamming his pelvis into her until his rod was buried completely into her and his balls pressed against the flaps of her wet folds.

Suddenly she clenched around him hard around his pounding rod and she screamed so loudly that he was sure all of the Seven Kingdoms could hear them. Jon didn’t stop though, continuing to fuck her even through her climax, only increasing his speed even more, fucking her ass with an inhuman force and speed that made his hips become a blur. If he wasn’t so far gone in his pleasure, he might have been worried he might hurt her, but as his balls became heavy with his impending release, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The result was instantaneous. Jon’s hand latched onto her ass, enjoying the way it jiggled in his palms, holding on for dear life as he pounded his seed into her clenched ass hole. Her stretched and abused hole clamped down onto him, pushing her against his to welcome Jon’s seed, causing him to tighten his hold on her ass that he saw bruised forming, though he still didn’t care, not as long as he pumped it full of his seed so deep that she would feel it inside of her all nit.

“O-Oh, gods, Jon… It’s so warm…”

He was spent, but made sure every single drop of himself was buried as deep as possible into her, the feeling of her clenching hole made his hips tremble. Exhausted, Jon fell on top of her, his hardness still in her ass. He pulled out of her quickly, hoping to illicit a yelp. 

When he regained enough energy to pull himself out of her, he couldn’t help but watch in fascination as her gaping entrance fluttered and convulsed, hoping to see his seed flow out of it. But he’d come too deep inside her for his seed to dribble out of her right then. His come would remain right where he wanted it to, at least for a time - many inches up her ass hole, deeper than any man’s seed had ever been inside of her voluptuous body. 

She was laying flat on her stomach, eyes closed in exhaustion, so he collected his clothes and left her there. Jon didn’t have the time to wait for her to recover - he was to leave that afternoon, and he still hadn’t packed his items. 

As he approached his chambers, it didn’t take long for Ghost to appear by his side again. Jon couldn’t help but be amused at the quiet understanding of when he should be beside Jon’s side and when he should not - all the more convenient for him and Arianne, he supposed. Jon doubted that they would go through with their secret meetings with a direwolf sitting idle next to them.

The feeling of his companion’s fur between Jon’s fingers had always been a calming sensation to Jon. It soothed him, almost as if Ghost’s fur brushed all his troubles. Though, Jon doubted he would be able to do so conveniently in the future; his wolf was beginning to grow out of the size of a dog, sooner or later Jon was sure he would reach the size of a horse.

Jon’s chamber door opened and a feeling of sentimentality washed over him. As he started to fold and pack his clothes, he couldn’t help but be reminded of when he had to leave Winterfell. He had to leave his childhood and all its memories there. Admittedly, leaving Sunspear paled in comparison to leaving Winterfell.

He rolled up a tabard of his that had a white direwolf embroidered onto it, and placed it gently into his travelling bag. It was given to him by his uncle before he left, and he wore the thing when he rode through the gates of Winterfell. Jon remembered his departure well, including the goodbyes.

 _”The next time I see you, Snow, you will be a knight - With your own armour and sword,”_ Robb’s voice echoed through his head.

 _”Doubt it, Stark. No dignified knight would be willing to take a bastard as a squire - Royal born, or not,”_ Jon remembered replying. How much time had passed since then? He did not know.

Jon shook his head, _Those days in Winterfell is over. I will live out the rest of my days in the Red Keep, now._

But as he took his sheathed blade in his hands, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the sword he gave Arya. Skinny thing, it was, but it fit in her hands well enough. Jon remembered her cries and pleas when she found out that he was leaving.

_”Jon, please, don’t leave… Without you, I’ll be stuck listening to Sansa’s and Jeyne’s nagging all day!”_

Her tears were just as clear now as it was then. _”Some roads lead to the same castle,”_ was all the assurance she gave her. It stopped her weeping, but he knew well that they may never see eachother ever again. Everybody seems so far away from me.

Most called the north a cold and harsh land, but Jon called it home for over 5 years of his life. _Everything could have been so much simpler if I was born the bastard of Eddard Stark instead of Rhaegar Targaryen,_ Jon thought, but he knew many things in life were not simple.

Still, he could not help but wish. He could have grown up along side Robb until they were both men, and he could have went to the Wall, where he could serve as a Watcher of the Night’s Watch with Samwell.

_Yes, life could have been so much simpler like that. Nothing could have gone wrong, if I was given such a life._

He was certain of it. Yet, now here he was, with men around him cursing his name.

As soon Jon finished his packing, a pounding at his door echoed through his room. When he opened it, he was greeted with the grim face of Oswell Whent.

“Jon. We will be leaving in an hour - have you prepared accordingly?”

He nodded in response, “Yes. How long until I have to be in the courtyard?”

“Half an hour. Is there any business you need finished?”

“No, no. I just… I think I’m going to write a letter to Winterfell before we depart. I’ve just now realized that I haven’t written to them since our arrival here.”

Oswell nodded, “Right, then. Be sure to hurry, though. Rhaegar has always been obsessed with being punctual. You know where the ravens are?”

Jon shook his head, eliciting a sigh from the knight.

“Well, I’ll fetch a few guards and have them wait for you until you finish your letter. Goodbye, Jon.”

The door creaked at it closed. Jon wasted no time, pulling out a sheet of crumpled paper - he had a surplus of it, as he intended to write as frequently as possible. But, with all the feasts and other gatherings, he hadn’t found the time to send letters as frequently as he wished. Jon would’ve liked to write separate letters to each individual Stark, but he had to hurry, so he decided to just combine everything in one single letter.

It was only after a few lines of introduction, and Jon found himself sitting dumbly at his table, writing nothing for a brief period of time. He didn’t know what to write - he already wrote of Uther, Samwell, and Pepin in the first few lines, and he definitely couldn’t write them about of how he’s been having an affair with the Heiress to Dorne. 

He let the ink dry across the linen paper as he gazed over it, and recited the beginning of his letter a few times. Jon sighed, staring at Ghost as he remembered all that had happened in the last few days. Reluctantly, he wrote of his spars with Loras and Aegon, and his squireship under the Kingslayer. 

Jon decided to end the letter telling of his Lordship of Harrenhal. _I’m going to have my own house, with my own sigil and surname. I’ll send my sons to Winterfell, and Robb’s and my sons will grow to be as close as brothers._

He finished the rest of his letter, signing his name at the bottom and stood from his small oaken table, brushing his hand across the smooth surface. He picked up the letter, waving it through the air to help it dry faster, then folded it and sealed it with a red band. Jon did not possess the red stamp of the three headed dragon, so he would use a plain white wax. 

Jon opened the doors of his chambers, and as Oswell promised, two Dornish guards stood vigil beside his doors, with their spears standing gently in front of them as they acknowledged Jon’s presence. 

He turned to the guard to his left, “Good Ser, I was wondering if I could take this letter to the maester, so he may send it to Winterfell.”

The guard shook his head, “Give it to me, and I’ll take it to the maester. You only have a few more minutes before you have to be in the courtyard,” He looked to the other guard on the right of Jon’s doors, “He’ll take you to the courtyard.” With that, he took the letter form Jon’s hands, turned and quickly walked down the hall.

As he rounded the corner, Jon turned around and saw the other guard looking expectantly at him, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Jon nodded, as he turned back towards the inside of his room. With a small whistle, Ghost hopped to Jon’s side. “Shall we go now?” He asked to the suddenly frightened guard.

The man’s eyes dotted from Ghost to Jon multiple times, before he cleared his throat, and started walking down the hall. He led them down the corner, and Jon trailed closely behind him. It wasn’t long until they arrived at the courtyard, with every lord and lady standing proudly, waiting for their departure.

The afternoon was stunning. The bright, pale blue sky created a bewitching contrast to the castle of Sunspear’s dusty orange walls, decorated by milky white pillars that the stone walls were built around. Jon couldn’t help but compare the picturesque scene to Winterfell’s ashen, but charming sceneries. He remembered the castle’s walls, its pale grey stones enhanced by the snow and frost that would blanket it.

Jon was only pulled out of his daze when he was given a sharp squeeze of his arm.

“Didn’t I tell you to hurry? What in the world are you doing, standing there aimlessly like a halfwit?” Oswell’s voice was an unwelcome interruption, “Your supposed to be standing behind your aunt, for God’s sake! Your lucky nobody has noticed your absence yet. Go, go!”

It took Jon a second before he realized the departing ceremony had started. He slowly crept around the huge crowd of nobles, and swiftly made his way next to his aunt, Princess Daenerys. Most of the party was focused on the King’s oration, giving Jon the opportunity he needed to take his place behind her. Despite his attempts to go unnoticed, Ghost ruined his efforts by suddenly dashing out of Sunspear’s gates, scaring the horses and guardsmen as he bolted out.

Suddenly, all eyes were on him. Many, including Rhaenys, glared at him indignantly, while some tried their best to hold back snickers. To Jon’s Father’s credit, he continued giving his speech in a dignified manner.

Sheepishly, Jon scurried to his aunt’s back, and the ceremony continued.

Mostly ignoring the claps that followed the King’s oration, Jon settled in quickly, returning to his inspection of Sunspear’s architecture and scenery. The environment was laid with the hot Dornish sun, now beginning to set as the day approached night. He wondered if the party would be able to make good time before nightfall. Judging by its size, probably not.

Sunspear’s walls were elegantly built, even from the inside. Vaguely, Jon remembered Maester Luwin’s teachings on the Rhoynish and Valyrians. He briefly lectured Jon and Robb on their different cultures, including their architecture. If Jon remembered correctly, Sunspear was built using the old skills of Rhoynish architects and masons. The Valyrians burnt their cities when they subjugated them, and Jon couldn’t help but think them mad.

 _Why would they burn something so beautiful?_ He wondered. _Were the Valyrians envious of their cities’ anatomy, or were they just as barbaric as the south says the North is?_ Jon always cringed when he listened to Luwin talks of the past sacks and burnings of cities, done by any civilization. He always found those acts distasteful, and completely backwards for any truly civilized society to do.

Silently, Jon vowed to himself that when he becomes a commander of an army, he would never disgrace any city like the Valyrians did to the Rhoynish.

Upwards, he lifted his head, and stared at the darkening sky. Jon was tempted to hold his hand up, and try to touch the clouds. He didn’t, though, he didn’t want to look simple. Instead, Jon stayed still, neither hand nor feet flinching in his resolution to stay as still as a statue.

But suddenly, he felt himself running. Padding, not only on his legs, but also on his hands. The raw feeling of sand was rough against his bare paws, and Dorne’s unbearable heat seemed to have increased tenfold, insulated by his thick fur.

For what seemed like hours, he sprinted across the dry desert sea, no change in topography or vegetation at all. He continued, though, driven by some strange hunger that possessed him like someone was forcing him, pulling him towards something.

Suddenly, a glimpse of green appeared. It was small, at first, but as he quickened his run, and the small dot of green revealed it to be a huge lush forest.A surge of excitement flowed through his body, suddenly, and his mouth watered profusely. He didn’t even he realize he had entered the forest until he was surrounded by thousands of different wild life.

The forest was familiar - He remembered being here. It took him a moment before he remembered that this was the same forest the he had staked in when Aegon demanded a hunting party to be arranged.

His thirst for blood would be quenched by a boar, then.

It took quite a bit of running around until he smelt the scent of something. A prey, no doubt. The woodlands did not disappoint.

Following his nose, his path crossed with a stag. It wasn’t a boar, but it would do.

As seen as the stag’s eyes met his, it pranced the opposite direction, gracefully dancing around tree branches and other obstacles. It didn’t matter in the end, as they both knew that it would be squirming between its predator’s jaws soon.

At the very least, it provided good sport. But, when the stag’s dance faltered, he wasted no time in pouncing on it, and soon blood covered his tongue, and juices filled his mouth.

He howled, sitting on his meal for the briefest of moments, before he dug his claws and teeth into it again. The stag tasted sublime. Its blood tasted like the finest of wines, and the meat was nothing like he had ever eaten. He sat there, savouring its taste, before he leaned down for another bite. His mouth salivated, and as he sunk his teeth into the stag’s flesh -

“Jon?”

Arianne’s voice pulled him out of his daze. Jon looked down from the sky, then at her. The Dornish Princess had a slightly concerned look on her face, but she still wore her smile without fail.

Jon looked around, realizing the royal party was beginning to funnel out of the gates, and he was just standing there, as still as a statue. He massaged his temple, and the taste of blood was still on his tongue, _The heat is making me delirious, I suppose._ Those moments when Jon feels that he is a wolf has made him question his own sanity immensely.

“Were you taking a nap?” Arianne asked jokingly, “I’ve never seen somebody sleep whilst standing up.”

“The King’s oration put me to sleep,” Jon replied, and not without the same gaiety the Princess of Dorne had.

“Regardless, I’ll be terribly melancholy,” She said, but without any coquettishness, “Now that you’re leaving, that is.”

Jon could feel a sad smile grace his face, “I will miss you too. Dorne has made me forget what my surname is, for a time.” He pursed his lips, “Thank you. For showing me the few joys of life that I have the privilege of experiencing.”

“I’m glad,” The Princess nodded, “I hope our paths cross again. I will dearly miss seeing you.”

“Some roads lead to the same castle.” Those were the same words Jon had given Arya before he left, and like then, he had to force his goodbye out of his mouth, lest he collapsed right then and cried.

With those parting words, Jon left with the rest of the royal party, waving at Arianne’s sad dark eyes.

Only 3 weeks out of Sunspear, and Jon had already missed Arianne terribly. He had hard times sleeping whilst travelling with the caravan, and sometimes he would have to take long walks around the general vicinity of where they camped, just to clear his mind. He believed he may have gotten the fever - the weather was incredibly hot in the day, so he would wear little, only to freeze during Dorne’s cold nights. Those nights were comparable to the winters in the North.

The little sleep he did get were those of when he saw through the eyes of Ghost, and he would wake covered in sweat. Then, he would throw off his furs to trade it for his tabard that was embroidered with the white direwolf, and stumble out to the stinging cold calling for Ghost, no doubt awakening many around him.

The worst part of the journey out of Dorne was the bugs. The mosquitoes were nothing like Jon had ever seen. He wondered if the First Men of Dorne worshipped a mosquito god. _I would do a great deal to propitiate such a god._

The only peace Jon got from the flies was by the fires, where the heat was the worst. A fever, high heat, and bugs. Jon couldn’t imagine a worse torment. 

He was settled by the smoke of a fire, when Loras suddenly came and sat by him in the smoke. The Tyrell offered wine, and Jon was eager to take some. Drunkenness usually eased Jon’s pain. Jon didn’t think he had ever see Loras so angry. The Knight usually wore an easy smile.

“Fucking bugs,” he spat, “I hate them.”

Jon could only nod. The two hadn’t talked too much outside of when they had fought in Sunspear’s courtyard, and this was the first time the Tyrell spoke a word to him since they left Sunspear.

It seemed that was the extent of their conversation, as the Tyrell was perfectly content with taking heavy gulps from his skin and furiously scratching at his bites.

“Damn Dorne, and its mosquitoes,” said Jaime Lannister, who threw himself down by the fire and coughed in the smoke. Along with him, followed multiple other Kingsguard, “These bugs. They weren’t that bad when we came down from King’s Landing and when we were settled in Sunspear. By the seven, where do they come from?”

“Farted out of the Stranger’s ass hole,” was all Jon said, and his gross impiety earned a laugh from the knights that gathered around. It was crude, and Jon never allowed himself to say such things around other people, but he was angry and it summed up how everyone felt.

One of the Kingsguard held out his hand for Loras’ wine. “May I?” he asked, and it was then that Jon recognized that that man was Arys Oakheart.

Loras passed the skin and he drank, coughed, and drank again. “My father used to tell me stories of the experiences he’s had with other soldiers when they marched,” He took a drink from the wine skin, “He fought in the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion. The War of the Ninepenny Kings.”

“I would very much prefer fighting a war right now, instead of slapping away flies,” Balon Swann grumbled.

“You might not have to wait,” Mandon Moore spoke, with his oddly flat and monotonous voice, “I heard another the Golden Company has broken one of his contracts with one of the Free Cities.”

“Odd,” Lannister said, “But I highly doubt that’s a sign of a rising Blackfyre.”

Jon nodded, “Barristan Selmy slew the last of the Blackfyres during the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion.”

“Who would you rather we fought?” Mandon asked, “The Golden Company’s a withered hag by now. Even if there was another Blackfyre, I’m sure a unified Westeros would make quick work of them.”

Balon roared, and his bellow was so loud that it lit up Jon’s fever, and his head started to pound, “Exactly! Even if it’s just one battle - A war would give the singer’s to sing about.”

A few of the circle around the fire were laughing, and Jon noticed more men had joined them around the fire. But, their faces started to swim, and Jon began seeing people who weren’t there - who couldn’t be there. Lyanna Stark. Rickard Stark. Brandon. There weren’t just Starks, but even Targaryens. Targaryens that lived centuries before Jon. Aegon the First. The Young Dragon. The Dragonknight.

Jon didn’t know how he knew who was who, but he just recognized them. Oakheart said something, and everybody laughed. Suddenly, Jon saw Robb, who laughed so hard he slapped his thigh, where blood flowed from a wound. Next to him, Jon’s uncle Ned laughed so hard blood spurted from his neck.

Everybody was laughing, and Jon’s head was spinning…

He felt soft fur move under his elbow, and suddenly Jon was on his feet and walked back to his tent, where he collapsed and fell in a wine stupor. 

As Jon’s eyes grew heavier, he saw the red eyes of Ghost.

 _Red, like blood…_

And with that, Jon’s consciousness left him.


	11. Samwell I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took very long... Got a bit of a writer's block.

Samwell fell to his ass again.

And again, he couldn’t find the strength to get up. His attacker did not wait for him to get up, rushing towards Sam’s prone body and slashing at his body. Halder did not show any sympathy or remorse in his swings, adding new bruises to Sam’s already aching and purple ones.

“Ser Piggy!”

“Cut me a slice of bacon, Halder!”

Mocking laughs rang through Castle Black’s courtyard, doing a poor job of encouraging Sam to get up. He wanted to, he truly did. Sam always dreamed of being a great knight, but he was a coward. Instead of striking back, the most he could hope to do was beg and yell.

“That’s enough, Halder! Stop it before I make you stop!” The Master-at-Arms strong, booming voice forced Halder to seize his strikes. Everybody was scared of the imposing man. Jeor Mormont was old and white, but his age did not diminish the power of his stern gaze and broad shoulders at all, “Get up, Samwell, before I tell Halder to hit you more! Alright, that’s enough. We’re done for today, put away your swords and armour.”

Even without Halder’s strong slashes, Sam still did not have the strength to rise. Every part of his body hurt, and the North’s freezing cold did not help to sooth the pain at all. If anything, it made his bruises worse. He stayed there, laying there in pain for the longest time. He was scared that he may never be able to grow up, and he would freeze to death in the cold - Sam wouldn’t have been killed fighting a wildling or a mammoth. Instead, singer’s would be singing of Sam the Coward, who died freezing due to his own weakness.

Suddenly, Sam felt a hand under the back of his head. He felt another under his arm, but Sam could only feel the palm on this one, he did not feel any fingers. Regardless, the two hands pulled him up to his feet, steadying him before letting go. Sam’s head was pounding, and hurt immensely, but he could still recognize his saviour.

Davos Seaworth was a former smuggler, but Samwell could never imagine the Onion Knight as anything other than an honest, kind man. The Smuggler was the only person who was kind to Samwell, when Sam first came to Castle Black. Most other men looked down on Sam, and Sam’s classmates laughed and jeered at him. 

“Tired from fighting so hard, eh?”

Sam looked at his feet, “N-No, I didn’t… I couldn’t… I-”

“Don’t call yourself a coward, again, Samwell,” Davos sighed, “You’ve got more strength than most men, if you are able to call yourself such without hesitation. So, at the very least, take solace in that.”

“It’s true, though,” Sam sniffed. He had started to weep. “I- I am a coward… Even my own father would tell you so.”

“Then that man is not your father,” The Black Brother shook his head, “Come now. It’s time for supper.”

Samwell had always looked forward to having supper, back when he lived in Horn Hill. Of food, Horn Hill had plenty, sometimes they would prepare great plates of boar or deer, cooked with onions and mushrooms, or tiny pieces of capons stuffed with onions and mushrooms. There were great loaves of brown bread, mounds of turnips and sweetcorn and peas, immense hams and roast geese and trenchers dripping full of venison stewed with beer and barley. For the sweet, The castle’s chefs seemed to have endless servings of sweet cakes soaked in honey.

However, Sam was no longer in Horn Hill, and instead he was now a Black Brother of Castle Black. The two castles could not more different, and that wasn’t just limited to the size of their meals. The Nights Watch was poor and undermanned, and it seemed their funding touched their bounty - the most Sam ever had for a meal was stale bread and bland porridge.

Starvation wasn’t the worst part, though. Although a lot of things about the Nights Watch was too much for Samwell to bear, but his pees were by far the most horrible thing Sam had to endure.

They took a cruel joy out of harassing Sam, and they did so relentlessly. The worst was during meals, when the boys had nothing better to do when they finished their food. Sam wished that they would stop, and that the Gods would give him the strength to rise up to the likes of them. They didn’t, though, and his friends were not here to protect him. The only person who aided Sam was Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, but he was sat next to the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon during meals. Even when the man could help Sam, he was still one good man in an army of thieves, murderers, and rapists.

 _Jon had always talked about how he wanted to join the Nights Watch, but his uncle forbid him to do so. He always go on about how honourable the Nights Watch was,_ Sam very much doubted that the royal bastard would’ve said the same thing about them once he was faced with the reality of the Nights Watch’s condition.

He still missed Jon terribly, and Uther and Pepin, too. Sam knew that the three of them would have had to separate eventually, and that meant that they wouldn’t have always been around to protect him. He knew he had to grow eventually, and become what his father considered to be a real man, but he couldn’t. _Gods_ he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

 _Father had always been right, I’ve always been a coward…_ Sam thought, as he ate the last of his supper. 

The short recess ended, and Sam and his peers had to get back to training. It would be more of the same, Sam knew. He would be paired up with one of his classmates, and he would be knocked on his ass again and again. The only break from the routine was the introduction of a new group of recruits, but they were more of the same. Rapists… thieves… He believed one of them was a blacksmith’s apprentice, but that was hardly relevant at all, any more. _I used to be the heir of Randyll Tarly, but none of the other boys hardly care at all,_ Sam thought, as Grenn hit him hard across the chest.

Grenn was eager to follow up with his strike, ignoring Sam’s cries of mercy, and smacking him with his blunted tourney sword. Samwell looked at the Master-at-arms for help, but Jeor Mormont was focused on a different pair of trainees, and Davos didn’t seem to be near the courtyard.

“Stop that! He yielded!” Was all Sam heard, before he saw a blur dash in front of him, smashing into Grenn. 

Sam recognized his saviour as the blacksmith’s apprentice from before. He was muscular and handsome, but Grenn was even bigger, which made the fact he was able to knock the larger boy onto the ground even more impressive.

“Fuck -” Grenn spat, pushing himself back onto his feet, “What are you trying to do? Don’t you have your own partner?”

“He’s my partner now. I didn’t find my last one much of a fight, so you can have him,” the blacksmith’s apprentice said, then turned and pointed at Sam, “You were hurting him.”

Grenn seemed to open his mouth to argue, but promptly closed it, walking away from them.

The blacksmith’s apprentice looked at Sam, holding his hand out to help Sam up. Sam took his hand reluctantly, “Why did you help me?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know. I just wanted to.” The blacksmith’s apprentice pursed his lips, “I suppose you reminded me of a friend of mine.”

“Who?”

“Hot Pie,” He said, as if it was obvious, but shut his mouth quickly, as if coming to a realization, “He’s… he died, though. On the way to the wall.”

“Dead?” Sam asked, stunned, “How?”

“Bandits. They’re everywhere, these days.”

Samwell didn’t know what else to say to the blacksmith’s apprentice, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He simply shrugged.

They stood there for a moment, both unsure how to continue their conversation. Their silence was only broken by the master-at-arms.

“What are you two doing?” The man’s voice cut through the tension, “You two are supposed to be sparring, get to it!”

The two recruits swiftly followed the master-at-arm’s command, getting into stances, though Sam’s was noticeably sloppier.

“I’ll try not to hurt you to much,” The blacksmith’s apprentice said, “My name is Gendry. What’s yours?”

“Samwell. Samwell Tarly,” He answered.

Gendry kept to his promise, and his swings were not as hard as Grenn’s, though Sam still found himself on his ass, more oft than nought. Whenever he hit Sam, he allowed Sam to get a strike on him. He kept cutting at Sam’s sword arm, and the padded leather was not enough to keep those blows form creating bruises.

“Keep your sword down and behind your shield,” Sam heard the master-at-arms call out to him. For a brief moment, Sam remembered Jon telling him how a good swordsman doesn’t show his opponent the sword until the cut is coming in. Sam kept waving his sword about, sending Gendry signals as clear as if he was shouting out when he meant to attack.

The rest of their matches were more or less the same, but Sam tried to keep his sword hand down so it was hidden by his shield. As the pale white sky of the north began to turn grey, soon, Jeor Mormont gathered the recruits and gave them instructions. They did drills in pairs for the rest of the day, and by the end, Sam was sweating like a dog, even in the cold northern weather. He was sure he would get a cold later.

Samwell found himself resting on one of the benches near the courtyard while all the other recruits went into the armoury. It wasn’t until later that he got up and followed their lead. He saw most of them leave the armoury and go back into the castle, but did not catch Gendry leaving the shaft. Some liked to stay around and talk, so Sam assumed that was what Gendry was doing.

They were not talking, however. Instead, Sam found four recruits pinning him to the wall, and one of them held a knife to his throat - a real knife, not the blunted ones the armourer liked to give them to train with.

Blunted or not, Samwell found his legs acting on instinct. He charged into the group of recruits, clawing at them and trying to pull them off Gendry.

“L-Let him go!,” He screamed, “Don’t hurt him!”

“Arch! Get off me,” One of them - _Grenn_ , he recognised now - knocked Sam onto his back with a hard shove.

For a moment, his knife left Gendry’s throat, and he looked at Sam with anger in his eyes. Grenn looked as if he wanted to kill Sam.

Whether he wanted to, Sam would never know, as their small fight was halted by Donal Noye, the one-armed blacksmith.

“What the bloody hell do you think you boys are doing?” His voice boomed just as loud as Jeor Mormont’s, if not louder, “The armoury isn’t where your supposed to fight - leave it in the courtyard.”

As soon as they heard the man’s voice, they froze, and scrabbled to their feet.

Gendry and Grenn were both muscular and tall for their age, yet Sam couldn’t help but be amused by how the cripple could so easily disarm them. Samwell did not judge them, however. He was just as intimidated by the veteran as them, if not more. Donal Noye held a commanding and an authoritative aura that reminded Sam of his father.

“Will one of you sods tell me what that was about?” He asked, though not gently, “Quickly, before I decide that there is more efficiency to beat you six baboons as opposed to trying to play the mediator.”

None of the perpetrators seems to want to explain what happened, and Sam was relatively uninvolved in the conflict. Gendry seemed to find his voice.

“They said my mother was a whore,” The blacksmith’s apprentice seemed to grunt out, “I wasn’t just going to let that stand, so I hit one of them. Grenn is just mad because I beat him on the courtyard!”

“You did not!” The older boy said defensively.

“Yes, I-” Gendry was cut off by Donal Noye.

“I don’t care who beat who. The point is, don’t do it again. Or at least only one the courtyard, where it matters,” The armourer left no room for arguing, “Do you idiots understand?”

They all collectively nodded their heads.

“Good. Now go off. Dinner will be ready soon, so get ready,” He seemed to appraise each one of them for a moment, his eyes only stopping when they landed on Gendry’s face. A hurricane of emotions seemed to through old Noye’s face at that moment, and his eyes widened. “Except for you, boy. I want to talk to you.”

With that, five of the boys left the armoury, walking back to their chambers.

Samwell did not have much to do in his chambers. He was given permission only to take a few books with him from Horn Hill, and he was almost done reading all five of the books Jon, Uther, and Pepin collectively given him. Three of them were about the history of Westeros, contributed by Uther and Jon, and the other two were about the free cities, given to Sam by Pepin. He could only hope that he would be able to add a sixth book to his small library, soon, but from who or where, and especially when, he knew not. 

It didn’t take long until everybody was called down to the Great Hall for dinner. The food were more of the same, dry beef with a side of baked brussel sprouts. Sam took his usual seat, far from everybody else, and was content with focusing on finishing his dinner. He resolved to stare at his plate, hoping none of the other boys decided they wanted to harass him that night.

“Sam,” A familiar voice greeted. It was Gendry. “How is the food?”

He shrugged, “About as good as it usually is.”

Gendry frowned. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“N-no, it’s fine.”

“Well, Noye wants me to reconcile with Grenn, so I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Gendry left, Sam couldn’t help but reflect on how the former blacksmith’s apprentice was one of the few peers that treated Sam like an actual person. The thought saddened him, and he rose his eyes to watch Gendry try to talk to Grenn.

Sam was too far away from the two to have heard what they said, but whatever they said to eachother, it did nothing to reconcile the two. It appeared, it may have made matters worse, as Grenn punched Gendry, sparking a terrifying fight.

It was incredibly chaotic. Boys in the same class as them got out from their seats and hooted, betting which side would win. As they crowded around the two, Sam could no longer see the fight form his position. 

What seemed curious to Sam was how nobody else - watchmen who had years more experience than Sam and his peers - were participating in the recruits’ little skirmish. Most of them seemed to be intent in eating their meals, while others were staring - not at the fight, it took Sam a moment to realize, but at the Lord Commander. Sam found himself following their lead, and looked at the Lord Commander to see what he would do.

He leaned towards his trusted man, Davos Seaworth, and seemed to whisper something. As if the men who sat next to him were a line of dominoes, that single whisper seemed to spark a chain of rustles, which suddenly stopped when it reached Jeor Mormont, who immediately stood from his chair and pushed himself through the crowd of recruits. 

From his angle, Sam still could not see clearly what was going on, but it was clear by the Mormont’s shoots of angers, which quickly sent the recruits skittering back to their seats.

The entire scene was extraordinary - a example of the Lord Commander’s authority, Sam supposed. It shouldn’t have been surprising that that man was the Lord Commander, and how men like Jeor Mormont, who was decades older than him, respected him so much. He was, after all, the commander of the rebels at the siege of Storm’s End.

Stannis earned himself a reputation at the siege. “The Stag Unbent,” men called him, for his defiance. He refused to surrender, even when King Rhaegar himself arrived at the siege and told him that he killed his brother at the Trident. Only when the King showed him Robert Baratheon’s head, did he finally open Storm End’s gates. Even then, the siege probably still would’ve went on if it weren’t for the near mutinous state of Stannis’ men. 

Such a reputation showed itself on the man himself. He was not like Jeor or Donal, who held an authoritative presence because of their builds and personalities. 

_No… Stannis_ is _that presence._

With that thought, Sam’s musings of the Lord Commander ended.

The rest of the night was peaceful, and no fights broke out. Gendry returned to Sam’s secluded dining spot, and they continued with their dinner, occasionally made some awkward small talk which gradually eased as the night progressed.

Sam finished his dinner long before Gendry did, but waited for him to finish. When he did, the two stepped out of the Great Hall together, then out of the main building. The snow crunched under their feet, and the night was somewhat tranquil, in an ominous way. The Wall loomed over them all, making even a muscular boy like Gendry seem as small as an ant. Both of them stared at the hulking mass of ice when they left the building. 

“Have you been on top of the wall, yet?”

Sam flinched at Gendry’s question. “No,” He admitted, “I… I am not… fond of being too high from the ground.”

He shrugged, “Neither am I. That’s why I’m asking you to come with me.” The former blacksmith’s apprentice held his hand out, “I used to be terribly afraid of the dark, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so my master let me sleep in the same room as him. The bed was too small, though, so I had to sleep on the ground. Even then, it still provided me with a sort of assurance. It’s kind of like that, eh? If we go up together, maybe it won’t be so scary?”

Sam looked at Gendry’s hand. The very notion of going up the Wall terrified him, but he couldn’t help but feel at ease at Gendry’s words. He no longer felt like a coward.

And so, when Sam clasped Gendry’s hand, he realized he had just made an irreplaceable friend.


	12. Jon VI

Jon’s fever refused to subside. 

If anything, it got worse. He was no longer sure if it could be called a fever any more - Jon was all but certain one of those flies gave him some sort of sickness. The illness had him slipping in and out of unconsciousness, and he could no longer tell which region of Westeros the caravan was in.

Mosquitoes no longer bit him, so he knew they were no longer in Dorne - _So far from Sunspear. From Arianne._

They were either in the southern areas of the Stormlands, or in the middle of the Reach. Jon could not tell. He slept through most of the days the royal party spent on the road, usually resting on the baggage carts, and only leaving his makeshift bed to vomit in the woods. Periodically, a knight or camp follower would wake him to tell him to stop being a lazy ass. Jon never characterised himself as someone who was good at following directions.

Rarely, Jaime Lannister would wake him to have him polish his armour, but the Kingslayer seemed to not bother him too often.

Jon would always have the same nightmare, when he rested. They were constant, and his dreams where he could see though the eyes of Ghost were drowned out by them, despite the fact Ghost seemed to enjoy running off more and more often. He was always a rat, surrounded by dragons, and each dragon represented a member of his Targaryen family. 

The dream was always the same thing - the dragons surrounding him would stare at Jon, in his vile rat body. _They’re judging me,_ He knew, and that thought somehow stirred a deeper feeling of hatred than any of Aegon’s jeers or Joffrey’s crude laughs ever will be able to.

The nightmare was constant, and the few variables was whether or not the dragons would be laughing. He hated their laughs. They were worse than any noise he had ever heard, and they would not stop laughing until he woke up to puke. Their laughs made him feel… _weak._ It made him feel the most powerless he has ever felt, and he hated that.

It was a fairly average night, when Jon decided that he was sick of those nightmares, and decided he wanted to fight off sleep as long as possible.

There were no more flies, so Jon had no reason to keep near the fire any more. Yet, he did so anyway, enduring the excruciating heat - and the excruciating laughter of his brother - to listen to Loras talk with Renly Baratheon. Jon couldn’t help but think it was odd. The two had closeness that two war veterans would have after fighting a battle with eachother - _or the closeness a wife and husband would have._

Jon shook away those thoughts.

Regardless, the matter of the Baratheon and Tyrell’s relationship was irrelevant to Jon, so he did not pay much attention to it.

He did, however, pay a lot of attention to his sister. He paid attention to things he did not before, since Arianne was no longer with him. Apparently during the nights on the road, Aegon, Loras, and many other lords, ladies, and other camp followers would gather around a fire and mingle. 

Sometimes, Rhaenys, Daenerys and their ladies would sing during the long days, and Jon was fortunate enough to have been awake when it was time for Margaery to sing.

She was beautiful, in a different way that made Arianne beautiful. Margaery was around Jon’s age, and delicate like any girl her age would be. Jon liked her legs and hips, especially. Her breasts were not as large as Arianne’s, but that was an unfair comparison. Jon still thought them pleasant to look at regardless.

Jon thought about the line between appreciating her like a friend of her brother would or a man who wants to play at being her suitor. _There really isn’t much of a difference, I suppose,_ He mused.

Jon left the merry circle of drunkards for a moment, to piss, and when he came back, he found Margaery sitting on his log.

Before he could flinch, she laughed. “I had nowhere else,” she said with a chuckle.

Jon liked that chuckle. She was referring to the fact that prostitutes had begun to flood to their group and began entertaining the men, and she wanted to sit as far from them as she could manage. And if he were to look deeper into her chuckle, he would dare guess that she may have also been saying that although she was not that bothered by it all that much, she was still a maiden who was adamant in facing her head away from the scene. Quite a lot to convey in a chuckle.

Jon made himself some space - not a lot, but enough - and laid back. He could not remember what he and Margaery talked about. Renly had been continuously filling everyone’s cup with Arbour Gold without pause, not letting anybody rest for a second and sober themselves. She did most of the talking, he remembered, controlling the flow of the conversation easily, as if she had none of the wine at all. Jon did little to stop her, too focused on the way she sat with her arms around her legs and her chine pressing her knees to her chin.

“Have you bragged and bragged to my sister, Jon?” Loras said easily to him. It was the first time he addressed him in the night.

Jon nodded sheepishly. Loras said a few things to him for a few minutes and swiftly returned to talking to Renly, and Margaery continued to ask slow questions and his past living in Winterfell.

And Jon answered.

In a heartbeat, a realization came to Jon. Loras was eager to talk to Jon before, but now seemed to be trying to engross himself in other conversations as long as Margaery kept talking with Jon. When the thought struck him, Jon felt foolish for not realizing it sooner. A thousand doubts raced through his mind during his second of contemplation. 

Jon’s displeasure must have made itself apparent on his face, as Margaery suddenly stopped asking questions and gave Jon a concerned look. _I don’t want to marry her!_ Jon thought petulantly, _Harrenhal is nothing to me. I want to go to the Wall, and serve as brothers with Sam. I want go back to Sunspear, and fuck Arianne all day and night. I want go back to Winterfell, and see my uncle and cousins again. I want to- I want to-_

Just as quick as his last revelation, it occurred to Jon that marrying Margaery and being one of the wealthiest landowner in Westeros might have been a fine future. He had always though himself lucky if he were given a small stronghold in the North to serve as a vassal to his cousin Robb, and that was what he wanted. But Harrenhal was larger than anything he could have dreamed of. Jon would have a House of his own, and Margaery would’ve made him fine children. She was intelligent and no doubt would’ve made a perfect lady to help him with his estates -

Sleeping with Margaery, who even then could make Jon blush-

Jon stammered out an answer when she asked if something was wrong. Margaery laughed again, and the night seemed like a marvellous place.

They continued their conversation, only stopping after Jon finished another cup of wine. He felt the urge to vomit return to him, and he was not thrilled with the idea of disgracing himself just because he thought he could last a few more moments fending off the pain in his stomach to indulge in his boyish affections.

He excused himself, and disappeared into the woods. Jon felt himself surrounded in the darkness with his hands holding his unkempt long hair away from his face. The kiss of summer weather was ruined by the subsequent smell of vomit. It mixed with the scent of pine and coriander - two pleasant fragrances by themselves, but with presence of Jon’s regurgitated dinner, they only accentuated they sudden unpleasant odour that had filled the air.

His hair did not get soaked by his fire like last time, and there was no blood present in Jon’s vomit any more, so there was at least some positive aspects to that moment.

Jon made to get on his feet, but as that moment, his head decided to pound. His vision blurred, and it seemed as if years of swordplay had disappeared, and he could not find his balance.

It felt as if _something_ , something ethereal and beyond his comprehension was pulling Jon, and he had no control of his own body. 

He spent a good hour or so, stumbling around the woods, whether out of drunkenness or there really was some sort of God that was dragging Jon around the woodlands. 

_I have to get back to the camp,_ Jon thought, before suddenly collapsing.

*

Jon woke the next morning - or rather, afternoon - with dirt and mud smeared across his face, and the familiar taste of blood in his mouth.

Oddly enough, he no longer felt ill.

His head no longer pounded, and his eyes didn’t feel like they would burst when he gazed at the sky. 

Jon felt a whisper of a smile grace his face.

He felt it just as quickly fall into a frown, when he realized that he know not where he was.

Memories flooded back to his head, of his drunken wanderings through the forest. He felt foolish for doing such, and allowing himself to be separated from the caravan so easily. It was the early afternoon, and the party had definitely already departed from the camp they had set up last night. For all Jon knew, they could have already been miles away from it.

He contemplated going back to their camp site, just to sure, but quickly discarded that idea when he realized he didn’t even know the way back. _God’s, I’m an idiot._

Panic would of set in, if Jon wasn’t so tired. Despite his sudden recovery, Jon still felt a heavy fatigue rest on his shoulders.

Jon spent a good hour wandering around the woods aimlessly. The entire time, he had not seen any sign of life that was a person’s, and each minute that passed meant the more distance the royal party put between them and Jon. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the caravan won’t be travelling quickly, however little that consolation proved to be.

A part of Jon’s mind couldn’t help but be reminded the isolation he has felt as the unwanted bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen. Half the north despised him and saw him as the cause of the Great War, and the entirety of the South saw him as nothing but a disgrace. Despite any misgivings he may have felt due to this knowledge, Jon was still thankful to have grown up the way he did. 

He missed Winterfell terribly.

If he tried hard enough, the forest he wandered around in vaguely resembled the Godswoods of Winterfell. The trees were not pale, though, and their leaves were not blood red. Snow did not cover the grass and dirt, and the soil was not as black as sin. 

There was no white in the woods of the South. 

Yet out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw white.

White. White that bore eyes as red as blood.

_Ghost._

Jon’s direwolf was a comforting presence, however unexpected. He wasted no time and embraced his silent companion for returning to him in his time of need, though Jon doubted the direwolf held any knowledge of his situation. Regardless, he still hugged the wolf as hard as he hugged Robb when he left Winterfell.

The sensation of the wolf’s wet tongue upon his cheek brought a smile to his face.

Ghost pushed himself out of Jon’s embrace. He would have felt hurt, if he didn’t find Ghost’s movements curious. The wolf pulled on Jon’s sleeve, as if urging Jon to follow him. 

And so Jon did.

If he had any better ideas, Jon would’ve thought his blind trailing of his wolf foolish. He was sure either Aegon or Joffrey would’ve mocked him for it. 

Neither Joffrey nor Aegon was with him, however. Joffrey was far away from Jon, thankfully, in King’s Landing, and Aegon could’ve been miles away from him. And Jon was alone, the only company he held was his guide.

Ghost was considerate, and did not prance off to disappear in the woods. Jon had no horse with him, and there was no road to make the forest’s terrain any easier to navigate through. 

The sky had already begun to darken, and Ghost and Jon had been walking through the woods for almost the entirety of the day. Jon was tired, and he would’ve given anything for a minute of rest, but Ghost granted him no such privilege. A part of him was frustrated and tired by Ghost’s refusal, but another was somewhat understanding. Resting would have wasted time, and Jon’s sluggishness would’ve been preferred to the caravan putting more miles between them.

Jon cringed at the thought that as a soldier, he would have to march from first light to midnight. Suddenly, war lost it’s appeal to Jon, who had always thought that the battlefield was the only road to glory for a bastard.

Just as Jon felt as if he would collapse, he saw the smoke of a camp fire. Hope allowed Jon to walk a few more miles.

If he was still ill, he was sure he would have already been dead.

From the trees and bushes he emerged, haggard and exhausted. As soon as he arrived at the camp site, Ghost quickly abandoned Jon. As the wolf ran back into the woods, he knocked Jon on his ass, causing him to swear. He was sure he was quite the sight. 

The camp was on top of a hill, and near by was the road. The carriages and wagons seemed to have been arranged in a huge hexagon, and there were multiple smaller hexagons arranged within the outer hexagon, each hexagon getting smaller and smaller depending on their distance from the centre, which laid the King’s wagon.

It didn’t take that long until he was noticed by the camp members. Some men stared at him curiously, while others chose to ignore him.

Loras Tyrell approached him and handed him a cup of wine.

“You look terrible,” The Tyrell spoke bluntly. _He must be drunk,_ Jon mused. Either the Tyrell was drunk, or Jon really did look that terrible.

“Where have you been? We spent the entire morning looking for you before Princess Rhaenys got her way and the King was forced to move without you.”

Jon finished the wine in one gulp, “Long story. I don’t want to tell it. I’m exhausted, and want to go to sleep.”

Loras shrugged, and went on with his way.

And so did Jon.

He had hoped to quickly get to his carriage and sleep, but he had not known where his was placed - let alone if he had one at all. He found himself wandering around the camp site for a long time, crossing from hexagon to hexagon. Eventually, he came upon another Tyrell - or more accurately, she found him.

“Jon,” She started, with a look of concern. Torches set up around the camp illuminated her face.“Where were you? We were all terribly worried for your well-being.” She stopped, scanning her eyes over his body. Jon blushed, remembering his thoughts form last night. “You look you’ve fought a bear,” She said.

“I’m fine.”

“I hope you are,” Margaery’s eyes returned to his. Her gaze made Jon uncomfortable, and he felt his face flush even more, _Shouldn’t have drunk that wine._

He had not realized that she had somehow led him to a bench to sit on without him realizing. When Jon saw her call a camp follower, and ask for wine, he swore to himself.

A different servant came and brought her the wine, and Margaery took her cup and handed Jon his own. He was reluctant to take the wine, but was hesitant to refuse. With just one single sip, Jon almost spat it out. It was incredibly strong, and Jon felt himself sway as soon as he swallowed the drink. If Margaery was as bothered as him, she didn’t show it.

Jon turned his head to avoid Margaery’s gaze, and in the distance, on the other side of the camp, he saw Aegon stumbling around with a prostitute in both of his arms. He did not see him, and Rhaenys was presumably already asleep.

Jon turned back to Margaery, who he realized had followed his gaze, and now they both saw it. She turned back towards Jon, their eyes met, and they shared a laugh.

And her foot brushed along the inside of his calf. 

_So she is drunk._

When she realized what she had done, she gave Jon an openly curious look, which said _I surprised myself there. But, now that I've done it, what are you going to do?_

He drank more of his wine.

She joined him. Her eyes were huge as she drank, and suddenly their legs were busy. He should have been worried for the scandal it could’ve caused if any body saw them, but they were in a relatively remote part of the camp, and most had already went to sleep.

They sat for a long time, and words unspoken were exchanged between them. Jon forced himself to excuse himself and get up from the bench.

As he rose, he saw that Margaery’s skirt had went a long way above her knee - the sight inflamed him.

A thousand excuses flowed from Jon’s mouth, even more rapidly than vomit.

She simply laughed, and fixed her skirt as she lifted herself from the bench. “You don’t know where your carriage is, do you?”

Jon shook his head. Margaery offered to help him find it.

It was well past midnight when they finally found where Jon was supposed to sleep. After a few small words, Margaery quickly left him at the steps of his carriage, declining his clumsy offering of escorting her back to her own carriage.

He entered his wagon. As any other carriage, it was small, and only held a bench which acted as both as a seat and bed. It was uncomfortable, but Jon didn’t care enough to complain to himself - he was too tired. Instead, he collapsed on the small bed, and before he knew, he was asleep.

When he woke up, it was already well into the afternoon.

And he had learned that they were nearing King’s Landing.


	13. Daenerys I

There was a commotion in the courtyard, and tens of servants seemed to immediately stopped what they were doing to catch a glimpse of cause of the gathering crowd.

Daenerys was not interested - she had seen the same scene dozens of times, and she was never too interested in duels, let alone watching them. It wasn’t because she thought them dull, they just reminded her too much of actual fights - ones with real sharp steel and red blood.

She had grown up during the eve of Robert’s Rebellion, and she had heard of the tragedies that came from the wars and all the fighting. Too often at night, she would find herself lying awake and praying for peace to grace the Seven Kingdoms for just a few more years. Although she never truly lived while war was amidst and men were dying, she had grown to hate war. It was one of the few things Daenerys would ever admit to truly hating.

Indeed, she hated war. Even more so than her brother.

Viserys was Daenerys’ family, and she always valued family more than anything. She loved Rhaegar, and Aegon and Rhaenys. Myrcella and Tommen were sweet children, despite their mother, and Daenerys always tried to maintain a good relationship with them. Although Joffrey was never the nicest person, she would never let herself hate him, for the sake of family. Even Jon, who half the Realm wanted dead, she had tried her best to kindle a friendly relationship with.

For all her work to create a strong bond with her blood, Viserys seemed seemed to try equally as hard to alienate himself from his family. He was a poison, Daenerys could not deny, and she never faulted Rhaegar for sending Viserys away. The saddening part was that Daenerys understood Viserys’ reasons for anger towards Rhaegar - She didn’t like Cersei Lannister any more than he did, but he took it too far.

She was still looking towards the crowd huddling around the courtyard. She tore her eyes away, as well as the frown that had formed on her face. Quentyn was in no such hurry to avert his eyes.

“What do you think has everyone so excited?” He asked curiously.

The frown seemed to return, “Loras and Jon are probably duelling again. Either Loras or Uther.” Uther Hightower had joined them at King’s Landing a few days ago for the upcoming tourney, and he seemed to have been a constant friend to every lord and lady that roamed the Red Keep. He even seemed to have created a strong friendship with Daenerys’ ever so distant baseborn nephew. They were practically inseparable half the time.

“Do you want to watch?” Quentyn seemed to almost leave Daenerys by herself before asking her what she wanted.

She had no desire to watch the match, but she forced a smile and nodded. She had wanted to go to the gardens with him, but she decided to comply. Quentyn was her betrothed, after all.

It had been Jon and Uther who were fighting. Jon was a fine fighter, but Uther seemed to have been beating him, with a combination of both size and age. Loras watched the pair trade blows while he sat next to Renly Baratheon as he waited to fight the winner. Jon’s mentor Jaime Lannister seemed to study him intensely. Most knights would directly duel their squires, but watching Jon was no doubt the only way for the Kingslayer to judge his squire, due to the lack of hand and all.

Despite her misgivings on fighting, Daenerys would’ve lied if she said the two didn’t look magnificent. Neither of them wore any armour that looked particularly costly, but both of them still managed to make their modest clothing look exorbitant. Uther wore a brilliant helmet, that had solid gold eagle wings decorated on it. Over his chest plate, which was polished like the disc of the sun and was embellished in silver and gold, he donned a cloak charged with his house sigil that was tightened at his waist with a jewel-covered silver buckle - the only truly valuable article of armour he wore.

Jon wore little armour, allowing him to move much easier, though he visibly winced every time Uther landed a strike on him, which was frequent. Jon wore a strange, northern cowl that danced around him every time he moved. One of the only piece of armour Jon did don was an admittedly rustic-looking helmet. It’s iron was old and dusty, and it was strange in it’s design - undeniably northern. It lacked a visor, covering only his head and leaving the entirety of his face exposed. The most face protection it offered was a nose guard. The strangest parts of the helmet was it’s crest holder, which were made of white horse hair.

It only took a moment before Uther bested her nephew, and a winner was declared. A horde of admirers descended upon him to congratulate his victory, and servants were quick to bring the pair drinks and towels. Jon refused the wine.

Daenerys was eager to leave, but her betrothed was insistent in watching the next match. In the end, she was forced to watch Quentyn get knocked on his back by Jon when he declared that he would join their training.

 _Well, he certainly won’t be crowning anybody the Queen of love and beauty,_ She thought, leaving the courtyard. Watching her betrothed get defeated again and again began to become dull for her, so she went back to her room.

She was soon joined by her ladies-in-waiting. They sat quiet for a long while, and Alyce Graceford brushed her hair.

Alysanne Bulwer fidgeted - she was always scared of silence, “Aren’t you excited for the tourney, Daenerys?”

She nodded. Truth be told, none of her family members seemed to thrilled with the prospect of the tourney, with the exception for the Lannister broods. It was to celebrate the return of the royal family to King’s Landing, but Rhaegar frowned when it was first suggested, and none of her nieces and nephews voiced any desire to participate in any events, save for just watching.

Regardless, Daenerys was still fascinated with the idea of seeing all the knights and lord and ladies in one location, so she answered Alysanne accordingly. It would be bigger than even the party to Dorne.

“Do you think Prince Aegon will joust?” Meredyth Crane asked wistfully. Her attraction to Daenerys’ nephew was not a secret to anyone, especially to those in the room. Alyce laughed, and Meredyth huffed. “What? Married or not, he’s still more attainable than that bastard you go on about,” She said, then immediately shut her mouth and hung her head in shame when she saw Daenerys wince, “My apologies, Lady Daenerys. I shouldn’t have spoken of your family like that.”

Daenerys shrugged. She had winced because Alyce had pulled her hair when Meredyth spoke of Jon, but Meredyth must’ve misinterpreted it as condemnation for how she spoke of her nephew. Daenerys was still displeased with the way she addressed her nephew, but she still wouldn’t have embarrassed the Crane.

“He won’t be a bastard for a long,” Ysilla Royce started, “King Rhaegar is going to give him Harrenhal.”

“Really?” Daenerys was curious. She had heard rumours that Jon would be receiving land of his own, but he had not been made aware that it was going to be Harrenhal. She always knew Rhaegar would give Jon a castle, but she never would have thought it would have been one as large and prestigious as Harrenhal. Alyce, whose strokes became rough and stiff, seemed to ease behind her.

“It’s all but confirmed,” Ysilla replied, leaving Daenerys to ponder the implications of giving so much power to a bastard.

*

The next morning, Daenerys found her betrothed with her nephew - the baseborn one. Quentyn had been practising swordplay with Jon, Uther, and Loras. They accumulated a small crowd, most of the members of the crowd were probably gathering in hopes of seeing them spar.

Apparently the Lannister Kingsguard had taught Jon a particular motion the evening before - after they had finished sparring. Her nephew awoken in the first pale light of the day to practice the blow, and his companions only decided to join along, hoping to utilise the technique during the tourney’s melee. The four boys had placed pebbles to help with where they wanted their feet to go when they delivered the blow, though Quentyn still seemed to have a bit of trouble when trying to execute the movements.

The steps were precise - they were so quick and instantaneous that Daenerys couldn’t seem to follow them with her eyes. The blow was a furious mixture of hip rotations, faints, and spins that confused her whenever she tried to follow the movements.

“You look like a prancing hen, half-brother,” Joffrey appeared suddenly, “I am eager to see you fail in the tourney.”

Joffrey was shadowed by Sandor Clegane. He seemed to be following Aegon and Theon Greyjoy, Daenerys noted. It was unsurprising to see the Greyjoy ward with to Aegon, or the Hound trailing Joffrey, but it was curious to see such a thing, a member of the Lannister-Targaryen brood with a Targaryen child of Elia’s.

The union between Daenerys’ brother and Cersei Lannister created a divide between the Targaryen family that gradually widened over the years, unsurprising considering it was a Lannister man who killed Princess Elia Martell. Even now, there are still a lot of arguments and debates regarding who actually killed her - Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. In the end, it didn’t matter, as it was Amory who lost his head, and Daenerys’ brother married the Lannister as if none of it happened.

Daenerys did not doubt Rhaegar’s reasons for marrying the Lannister, but she often wondered whether keeping Tywin Lannister from rebelling was worth fracturing the family so.

Daenerys had found herself in a position where she could be considered in neither faction. She tried to be as pleasant to both sides, and both sides were civil with her. Jon was also in a similar position where he was neither faction, but the difference was that both sides hated him.

“You’re up early, today,” Aegon spoke, “Practising, are we?”

“Swordplay,” Daenerys said, “They’re practising swordplay.”

“Ah,” Aegon paused, studying their movements. He seemed as successful as Daenerys in following their movements, judging by the way he scrunched his eyebrows after a few moments, “Practising for the melee, am I correct?”

Jon shrugged, “Join us,” he said, bluntly.

Aegon flinched. Daenerys was just as surprised. “Sorry?” He asked again, disbelief etched in every inch of his face.

“Join us,” Jon ordered the Crown Prince, tossing him a wooden sword. Aegon caught it with a stumble.

Aegon stared at the sword for a moment, and his eyes flicked from Jon, to Uther, then Loras. He hesitated before he moved to join the practise. He was stopped by Theon’s hand on his shoulder.

“Aegon, you’re not actually going to join them, are you?” Theon asked incredulously.

Aegon looked at him briefly, before shrugging and joining Jon in his movements. Jon slowed his actions so Aegon to follow them, and Daenerys could see what the steps were - lunge, hip rotation, right foot rotating around the left, another lunge - but this time from the side the last action left him in - the left foot passes the right, then a spin that left him facing the training dummy in a new angle.

As Aegon tried to copy those movements, Jon executed them faster and faster, and then began to throw cuts with the motions. The first time Aegon attempted to perform the actions as quick as Jon, he stumbled and fell.

“Use pebbles,” Jon said quietly, “They help.” He left his position and the rocks to Aegon, then began to perform the movements without them.

Theon had been standing, tapping his foot anxiously while he watched them, before he finally took a sword and joined them.

Daenerys turned to Joffrey, “Aren’t you going to join them?”

He seemed to take offence at her words, “Of course not! My swordsmanship is fine as it is!” He turned to the Hound, and ordered sharply, “Follow, dog,” before leaving them.

*

It felt odd, that on the same day, Daenerys had encountered Jon once again. Outside of dinner and such, she rarely stumbled upon him. Daenerys would never be able to give a reason as to why, considering as far as she knew, they were both relatively active around the Red Keep. She always assumed that it was simply because he had his own duties as a squire, and she preferred different company.

Daenerys had been invited to the council chamber. That was perhaps more odd than being faced with her baseborn nephew, as Aegon and Rhaenys were usually the only ones allowed to be present for Rhaegar's small council meetings.

She had rounded a corner to a corridor that would have led to the room where the small council was being held, with a guard closely trailing her. Daenerys didn’t realize it was Jon at first, only noticing his distinguishing dark locks and his strange eyes.

He was leaning against a pillar near the doors to the chambers, tapping his foot anxiously.

“What are you doing here?” She made the question sound harsher than she intended it to. If Jon was bothered by it, he didn’t show it.

“I’m waiting for them to be done,” He seemed to shrug. Daenerys noticed he held a small parchment in his hands, “I have things I wish to ask of the King.”

Daenerys shrugged, and was just about to enter the chamber. She froze when she heard yelling, presumably due to the outbreak of an argument, and she stepped back. It was wise of her to do so, as immediately, Rhaenys burst through the doors, shoving past Daenerys. She would’ve fallen onto her back, if the knight that had trailed her not caught her.

She recovered quickly, and turned to Rhaenys to question her, though she quickly shut her mouth when she saw the anger on her face. Jon was standing in the middle of the hall, and Rhaenys was staring at him, with a mask of total contempt and a hand raised as if to hit him. Jon looked just as shocked as Daenerys was, and stood there frozen as if in fear.

It had only been half a second, but it felt like an eternity as both Daenerys and Jon watched to see what Rhaenys was going to do. The moment was ended, with Rhaenys doing nothing of consequence, as Aegon abruptly called to Rhaenys, effectively stopping anything she was going to do.

He made to reach out to her, but she slapped his hand away, turning to Jon, “Excuse me, _Lord Snow_ ,” She said pleasantly enough, but her voice dripped with anger as the last two words.

Jon seemed to come out of whatever daze he was in at her words, and quickly obeyed Rhaenys’ order and got out of her way. Aegon made to chase her, but Rhaenys stubbornly marched away from him. In the end, he returned, gave a brief apology to Jon, and went back into the chambers. Daenerys followed.

It seemed that Rhaenys’ outburst went either unnoticed or ignored, as the lords of the small council continued to discuss whatever topic they saw as important enough to present to the king. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were also present too, to Daenerys’ surprise. It occurred to her that all the true born children and siblings of the Kings were invited, not just her.

Joffrey seemed to had long fallen asleep, not at all disturbed by Rhaenys’ outburst. Tommen’s eyes were darting everywhere but where the King and his advisers sat. The two Lannister brothers were a contrast to Myrcella, who sat there perfectly.

Daenerys laid in the couch where Rhaenys had been sitting before she stormed out. On the table next to her, were various foods she could eat from, and servants poured her wine. It was the first time sitting on a meeting on the small council for her, so she had never seen the organized chaos that was one of those meetings. She pretended to be as adult as she could, while Aegon stared on with a bored expression.

She tried to follow the different dealings the best she could, but the advisers talked too quickly and used words that Daenerys was not even aware existed. She was lost in her head, trying to sort through the different topics that the lords had discussed, but it only confused her more. It wasn’t long until - or it didn’t seem so long - until Rhaegar dismissed the advisers - save for Jon Connington - and rested his head into his hands.

As they left, Jon slipped in. He knocked on the wall to get Rhaegar’s attention.

It did, as he lifted his head to look tiredly at Jon. Once he realized who he was looking at, he returned to the posture and image of the dutiful king that he held through the entire council.

“What can I do for you, Jon?”

Jon fidgeted. “I have a few things I’d like to ask of you … In private, if I could,” Jon said, glancing at Daenerys and them.

“Of course,” Rhaegar nodded, “It’s good that you’ve come here, actually. I have matters I’d like to discuss with you, actually.” Jon Connington grunted at his side, and Barristan Selmy led them out of the chambers.

While Jon remained there with Rhaegar.

*

“You won’t be staying for the tourney?”

Jon looked at Daenerys, seemingly surprised by her presence. He seemed to have a new sword and helmet, but the helmet in particular looked like it cost a fortune. He held his helmet by his side, and his sword hung from his belt.

“No,” He shook his head, “I have business in the North. My cousin is getting married, and the Night’s Watch has need of what I will be bringing with me,” At the last part, Jon gestured at a cage full of criminals. They were all chained and shackled, some making bawdy remarks at Daenerys’ expense, though she remained dignified and ignored them.

Daenerys frowned, “You value your mother’s family more than us…”

A flash of irritation washed over Jon’s face, “Why are you here?”

“I-” Daenerys found herself stumbling backwards at his ire, “I did not mean any insult. I would understand why you would wish to attend your cousin’s wedding, but I was simply saddened that you are so eager to leave us for Winterfell so soon after we just returned from our trip to Dorne.”

Jon shrugged. “Well, it’s nice to see that somebody will be saddened after my absence,” he said, somewhat sardonically referring to the lack of an audience to send his party off. Daenerys and Rhaegar had been the only ones to give their regards.

Daenerys puffed her chest up, and prepared to give a speech about how much she valued him as family, but she was snubbed when Jon dismissively turned away from her. A flutter of indignant anger stirred within her, but she snuffed it out as she turned towards the source of Jon’s seemingly rapidly shifting attention.

“We’re leaving now, fuck-head. Stop flirting with women and start riding, you shit,” Uther said beside him. Daenerys sputtered at his vulgarity, but Jon did not seem too bothered by it, turning to her.

“It seems I’ll have to say my goodbyes now, Princess.”

“Will Uther be coming with you? I though he would be taking part in the tourney.” She asked, facing Uther, whose face flushed - presumably when he realized his use of language in front of royal presence.

Jon had already begun riding away from her. “We both have a mutual friend,” he called to her, then rode away.

*

The day of the tourney came quickly. It was not too great of a tourney - it was only meant to celebrate the return of the royal family to King’s Landing, and to an extent, Daenerys’ betrothal.

There were three score tents were set up around the open field and the newly made tilt yard running through it. There were some pavilions representing the lords in attendance though there were not many of them.

Hundreds of smallfolk ringed the entire field, but the stands offered the best view and thus were occupied by the highborn. The highest seats were given only to the most esteemed attendants of the tourney. Daenerys’ brother and his wife sat together side by side, Aegon also sat in one of the highest seats with his sister-wife beside him. Rhaenys had taken off her haughty expression in exchange for a genuinely excited one, while Cersei fussed over her Lannister broods.

With the Lannister broods sat Daenerys, right below the most acclaimed members of her family. Quentyn would’ve sat next to her, but he wanted to participate in the lists. Instead, her ladies filled the spaces surrounding her, mercifully separating Joffrey from her. She did feel some pity to Alyce, who had to endure his leering.

“He looks amazing…”

“He’s truly the perfect knight!”

Ser Loras rode towards the stands, and Daenerys’ ladies marvelled at the sight of him. She could not blame them, Loras probably looked the best of all the challengers who’ve gathered that day. His armour was beautiful, and he rode as well as he looked. The Knight of Roses bested Daenerys’ betrothed, though she couldn’t say she was surprised by the outcome. Quentyn was never the best when it came to martial prowess, though he still insisted on participating in the melee even after his loss.

Her ladies gasped and giggled beside her when he took his helmet off, soft brown curls falling across his face and piling over his shoulders. Their squealing intensified when he started riding towards their seats, until he was right in front of them. Meredyth nearly screamed when he handed her a rose, and said, “No victory is half as beautiful as you.”

His opponent was Gregor Clegane. The fact that the huge man attended the tourney enraged Aegon and Rhaenys, and the fact that he earned a place as the last four contestants tested them, but they remained cheerful.

They burst into laughter at the sight of the gigantic man struggling to control his horse - Daenerys did not think enraging the Clegane was a particularly smart thing to do, but they clearly did not share her concerns.

Loras and Gregor Clegane readied to begin their ride. Loras began in a slot trot, and smoothly transitioned to a charge, while Gregor’s horse sprang into a hard trot. The Mountain still seemed to be having trouble controlling his stallion.

It was only an instant, but there was still a clear winner when their horses rode past eachother, the loser’s lance being shattered into splinters. The Clegane collapsed onto the ground, hitting it with a surprisingly loud impact.

Loras’ lance had not even broken yet, and the crowd cheered when he rose his visor in victory.

Daenerys did not cheer, however. In fact, she watched in horror as Gregor got up in rage, demanding his sword, and beheading his horse in one swift slash. The crowd joined her in her horror when the Mountain began striding towards Loras, sending him to the ground with the very first blow. Frankly, Daenerys surprised that the blow did not already kill Loras, but she supposed that was just a testament to the quality of his armour.

The Mountain lifted his hulking blade, clearly intending to kill Loras. Ser Loras was helpless, and had raised his arm defensively, though it probably wouldn’t have done anything to stop the Clegane’s strike. As Gregor Clegane’s greatsword reached the pique of his upswing, time seemed to slow down, though nobody moved to defend the Knight of Roses.

The sword descended.

But Loras did not die.

Daenerys had heard rumours before, rumours of how the Hound gained his infamous burns. She remembered being once told that the former Clegane patriarch claimed that Sandor Clegane’s bed caught on fire, and that was the origin of his scars. There were other, grimmer tales that it was his older brother who gave him those burns.

Daenerys had never believed the latter explanation, dismissing them as just rumours made by someone who disliked the Mountain. In fact, she once believed that it was her very own niece and nephew who spread those rumours. Rumour or not, Daenerys couldn’t help but think it would have definitely explained the sight before her then.

Gregor Clegane was about to deliver a killing blow to Ser Loras when his sword was stopped by Sandor’s. It was just a moment, but that moment suddenly erupted into a truly grave duel, with possibly fatal outcomes. Daenerys couldn’t help that two brothers would never partake in such a fight with serious intentions to kill the other, unless there was some truly bad blood in their pasts.

For each swing that the Mountain delivered, the Hound caught them with his own blade. Sandor remained on the defensive for the most of the fight, but Daenerys could not blame him, for each cut his brother gave him would’ve been lethal for any other man.

“Stop this madness right not!” The King’s voice rang through the air, drawing all eyes away from the Clegane brawl, and subsequently to him.

The Hound immediately dropped to his knee as soon as the King’s voice was heard over the crowd, and a blow from Gregor passed through the air.

With that, Gregor came to his senses, dropping his sword, then glared at King Rhaegar and stormed off.

“You’ve saved my life…” Loras muttered, as if not believing he was alive.

Sandor Clegane was never a popular man. His harsh personality, and his short temper did not do well to raise his popularity. Nobody would ever say he was a handsome man, with all his horrible burn wounds.

So when Loras raised his hand with his and forfeited the championship to him, Daenerys was sure that that had been the first moment a crowd had ever cheered for him in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking kill me I just want to sleep


	14. Jon VII

Each day was a constant test of Jon’s patience. Despite the many insults that Jon was faced with, he still managed to keep a mask of stoic dignity - or at least he hoped he managed.

Since their arrival to King’s Landing, Aegon’s and his companions seemed to have forgotten about Jon for the most part. However, Aegon’s neglect had apparently costed the frequent disparagements of Joffrey and Lannister men.

Still, Jon didn’t have to face such deprecations as frequently as he probably would have, as Jaime Lannister had given him tasks to occupy him as his squire. They bored him, but it gave him something to do in the midst of an often infuriating day.

“I heard you’ll be going up north.”

Jon stopped, putting down the whetstone in his hand. He had been sharpening the Lannister’s sword, as well as polishing his armour. “Why do you want to know?” He said, irritated from his draining task. Although he was thankful those tasks gave him something to occupy himself with, he still did not enjoy doing them.

“Because I’ll have to accompany you.”

Jon shrugged, and nodded his head. He flexed his hand before returning to sharpening the Kingslayer’s blade.

“Is this wine?” He asked suddenly, holding Jon’s wineskin, “You’re too young to be drinking wine, I think.”

Jon scowled.“I’m nearly a man grown,” he said, annoyed, “Besides, you’ve seen me have wine many times, before. You’ve even offered me some.”

The Kingslayer shook his head, “I wasn’t in my best mind, then. Probably drunk. That’s what that stuff does to you - strips you of your judgement, as well as many other things. My brother, whatever his size, is a smart man, but only when he doesn’t have a bottle of beer in his hands.” He paused, “Promise me that you won’t drink any more wine - Or any other such beverages.”

Jon frowned petulantly, and nodded, obviously insincere.

“I mean it boy,” The Lannister voice grew serious.

Jon huffed, but realized the Knight wouldn’t drop the topic until Jon swore, “I promise.”

“Good - Don’t take the oath lightly. That’s enough boy. Is that blade yours, or from the armoury?” He said, pointing at the sheathed brand that leaned against the stool on which Jon sat. Jon had wanted to sharpen his own sword after he was done with the Lannister’s equipment.

“Mine,” Jon said, reaching for it.

The Kingslayer swiped it before Jon could take it, and unsheathed it, “Rustic.” He turned it over in his hands, studying it, “Too small for you. You should get a new one.”

Jon frowned. When he left Winterfell, the sword was given to him as a gift - Mikken had made it specifically for him. It had been a year since he left Winterfell, and he could deny that he had grown so that he could not use the sword practically, but he procrastinated at getting a new one.

Jaime Lannister shook his head, “There’s a street - The Street of Steel - you can find a panoply of smiths. It begins on the west of Fishmonger's Square inside the River Gate and climbs up Visenya's Hill. The higher up you go, the more expensive the shops. You’re the Lord of Harrenhal. You’re one of the wealthiest aristocrats in the Seven Kingdoms - treat yourself.”

He handed back Jon’s blade, and left the chambers.

*

Although the Crownlands were far from being as hot as Dorne, Jon still felt it unbearable. Unlike Sunspear, however, King’s Landing offered much more natural spectacles.

It was early in the morning as the sun shone on the Blackwater Bay, the clouds moved across the sky like a horse herd and the sun beams gleamed like pale rain-wet grass under the moon. The actual sky above was a deep blue - the same colour as the bay under it, Jon noted - and was likely to turn into a dust-blue as the sun ascended.

If Jon looked north, he could see in the distance, for our over the black sheds and streets of the city, mountains and cliffs rising in purple in lavender over the waters. The most distant seemed to tower over the rest.

Jon Snow felt that as long as he kept his attention on the realms of the heavens, he would be safe from the nagging fear of his new life at King’s Landing. In the distance, over the blue tides of the seas, was a crow, black as sin - a omen that no one wanted in their lives.. The gods seemed to have favoured him, in their cruel and toying way. They spoke to him - awake, in omens, and asleep, in rich dreams. He was flattered, truly, but sometimes he wished that they had picked someone else.

He found that drinking made such dreams stronger, so he since stopped. Ser Jaime Lannister also advised him to be more careful of what he drank, probably because he thought Jon was too young to have been already become an alcoholic.

Noise and motion to his right distracted him and his eyes flicked from the safety of the empty sea to the coast of King’s Landing’s harbour. His eyes led him deeper into the slums of King’s Landing, and as if only seeing it planted displeasure in a man, Jon grimaced and coughed.

Uther sat next to Jon, silently until he gave a grunt which could have been a laugh. He had arrived a few days ago, hoping to participate in the tourney. Jon welcomed him in open arms, happy for a companion in the forest of lies and deception that was the Red Keep.

They had both gotten up early in the morning to spar while they still had a bit of privacy, but they found themselves sitting on the edge of a balcony staring at the sunrise. But now that a reminder of the shit hole that was King’s Landing was placed before them, they climbed down from their seats and continued to the courtyard. More people would be awake now that it was dawn, but Jon wasn’t going to let that deter him from sparring.

“Look who it is,” Uther pointed in front of them as if Jon could not see. “It’s Ser Daisy!”

Loras grinned, “I prefer ‘The Knight of Roses.’”

Beside Loras was his sister, who gave Jon a small smile which made his face redden slightly. The two Tyrells were not an uncommon sight in court, and it hard to find them separated form eachother.

“Ser Jaime gave me a day off, so we were about to go down to the courtyard and spar,” Jon started, “Would you like to join us?”

Loras shook his head. “Actually, I was just coming from the courtyard,” he frowned, “You won’t have any luck trying to spar down there. I was going to swing at the practice dummy, but the place is full today.”

“Why?” Jon inquired.

“Knights training for the tourney, I would imagine,” Margaery gave a shrug, then smiled“A shame. I was hoping to see you three duel, but I guess that won’t be happening. At least for now.”

“What will we do, then?” Uther’s voice took on an uncharacteristically whining tone.

“Want to have breakfast with us?” Margaery suggested, “A pleasant way to spend a summer day. I suppose it isn’t as exhilarating as swordplay, but it’ll pass the time.”

Jon and Uther glanced at eachother, silently deliberating with each other. Uther shrugged, “Sure.”

Loras began to turn away, “Let me change out of my rags into something more appropriate. You two might want to do the same. We’ll meet at Margaery’s chambers,” Loras looked at Jon, “I’m assuming you both know where Margaery’s room is.”

Uther answered that he did, citing that he has been to one of her cousin’s chambers which was on the same corridor as hers, but Jon could not say the same.

“Let me show you where it is before you change clothes, then,” Margaery offered, hooking her arms around his. Uther and Loras went on their way to their chambers, while they started walking down a passage.

“Is there any particular foods you like?” She asked beside him, looking at him with a sort of attention that was strange to Jon. He didn’t have any favourite dishes, and was never a particularly picky eater like Sansa or Robb.

Jon was surprised by her question, and didn’t know how to answer. No one had ever thought to ask such a question to Jon, and he had never expected it.

He shrugged, contemplating his answer. “Boot leather tastes surprisingly good,” Jon joked. It would’ve taken him more effort to try and think of an actual answer, so he hoped humour would satisfy her.

Margaery was taken aback, and she stared at him silently for a few seconds. It was not long, but it was long enough to make Jon worry that his answer was not right. He let out a breath he did not even realize he was holding when Margaery started giggling.

“I do believe this is the first time I’ve heard you jest,” She said after she stopped laughing.

Jon grinned to himself. “I am not always so gloomy,” he said, as they walked through an archway.

*

The cold marble floor was cool under his cheek, but the weight of Uther’s tackle crushed the air from his lungs, sending Jon into a coughing fit.

“Not bad, considering it’s your first time,” The older boy said. He rolled off the princely bastard and offered him a hand, “My relatives and I would grapple for sport, so there is no shame in being beaten.”

Jon was still recovering from Uther’s charge, “Remind me how you convinced me to do this.”

Uther shrugged, “Because we’re bored, and this is the closest we’ll get to sparring without having to try and push an area for us to practise swordplay. Hey, it could be useful in actual fights.”

Jon grasped Uther’s hand and popped to his feet. He gave a groan and rubbed his hip. His shins were decorated with bruises from their earlier rounds. “Not much punches could do against armoured opponents, though,” he said.

“The point is to gain a physical advantage over your opponent if you are disarmed, not to actually beat them,” The Hightower replied.

After having breakfast with the Tyrells, the courtyard had still been filled with contestants, so Uther convinced Jon to wrestle with him. They found a open and secluded room that they used as an arena - not that difficult considering the size of the Red Keep, and how the majority of the servants and guests of the castle were swarmed around the courtyard. Jon would’ve preferred to have grappled in the courtyard, where the grass could cushion his falls, but instead they stood over hard, marble tiles.

They stripped themselves so neither of them were wearing heavy or loose clothing. Uther had the shoulders of a bull, and he stood a head taller than Jon - and Jon was not a short boy. He was wider, too, being deep of chest and broad shoulders. Jon was athletic, but slim. Neither having weight nor breadth, so it was no surprise that he lost each of their bouts.

“You’re fast,” Uther said, “But you’ll need width to win a round against me.”

Jon still rubbed his hip, “Thanks.” He was not sincere, anybody could tell. His attitude came out in his delivery. If anything, there was mockery in his voice. Uther punched him playfully.

“How about another fall?” The older boy asked, swinging his arms.

Jon nodded, and they both went to their respective positions at the opposite ends of the room.

He took up his stance, while Uther simply stood without moving. For as long it took Jon to draw ten breaths and release them, they stared each other down until they both had advanced enough began to circle each other. Jon was careful in keeping his distance - He had misjudged Uther’s immense reach the last bout.

Uther lunged in, his arms moved in coordination with his feet. Jon blocked one of his reaching arms and kicked hard at his knee, but it missed and he only got the side of his leg. Uther still grunted.

“Strong kick,” he said, backing away.

Jon grinned, rotating on his foot as he prepared to launch another kick. Uther grasped at that leg, only to catch air. He realized too late that it was a feint.

Instead, Jon whipped his kicking foot around, spinning his centre of gravity. As quick as lightning, he grabbed Uther’s extended hand and threw his weight to rotate the arm.

The older boy’s other arm was left unaccounted for, though, and it shot out and grappled Jon’s shoulders. Before he knew it, Jon was on his back again.

Uther stood above him, grinning, “Not bad.”

“Go to hell,” Jon spat.

“Not a very graceful loser, is he?” A feminine voice called.

“It doesn’t seem so, Lady Margaery,” Uther’s eyes darted to the source of the voice, “Got tired of Loras’ whining, eh?”

She gave a laugh, “I regret not following you two sooner. You two were very difficult to find.”

Jon rose from his back with the help of Uther and stood to face Margaery. She had changed into a different dress, instead of wearing the same one Jon saw her wear during breakfast. This one drew more attention to her slim waist and was slightly tighter around her hips. Jon tried not to pay attention to that.“As I am right now, I would have been very thankful you did not follow,” he said, slightly angry from his losses but at the same time slightly embarrassed to have been seen defeated by Margaery, of all people.

“It is unseemly for women to take part in athletics,” Uther said, grabbing Jon by his shoulder, “So I am happy to be faced with actual competition! Go Jon, sit down and lick your wounds.” Uther laughed at Jon’s indignation.

“Oh, I’m sure Jon was a fine opponent. As you said, it would not be proper for me to participate in such things,” Margaery’s assurance cooled Jon somewhat. “Say, Jon, one of your cousins… Arya, was quite wild, was she not?” She inquired, “Well, that was what Rhaenys said.”

“When given the choice, she was more likely to choose the sword as opposed to the needle,” Jon smiled, reaching out to grab at Uther, rotating him and tripping him over his extended foot. “You said I couldn’t beat you?” Jon grinned.

“That doesn’t count,” Uther grunted, quickly escaping Jon’s hold.

“Grand Maester Pycelle was asking for you - there were a letter addressed to you. I should have told you sooner,” Margaery said, “I offered to go and give you the letter.” She produced a parchment, adorned with the direwolf of House Stark, and held it out for him to take.

Jon was opening his mouth to thank her, when Uther suddenly tackled him to the ground. “Ugh,” was all that came out of his mouth.

“Eloquent,” Uther’s sarcasm was received with a glare form Jon, who quickly got up.

“Well,” Jon started, “I’ll suppose we’ll have to put an end to this contest, then.”

“I was having fun beating the crap out of you,” Uther grinned, punching Jon in the arm. Jon shoved in reply, and they ended up wrestling another round.

*

Jon’s hands shook as he waited outside of counsel chambers.

Rhaenys had shaken him - it was not common for Jon to feel fear, but his half-sister utter contempt for him unnerved him. For the majority of his life, Jon had known the hate many of the Seven Kingdoms had for him, but he had never been actually faced with somebody who did nothing to hide it.

Since he first learned what his existence meant to many of Westeros’ lords, he had always assumed that he would be able to keep his composure when met with one such detractor. Rhaenys proved him wrong, however. She was the perfect embodiment of those who saw Jon as the cause of the Rebellion.

The door burst open, and a line of Rhaegar’s advisers came out. Jon felt himself tighten his grip on the parchment in his hand as they exited the chambers. First, the grand maester Pycelle, then Paxter Redwyne, the Baelish, Varys, Renly Baratheon….

Jon slipped in as soon as he saw the last of the counsellors stepped out. All his true born relatives were present - except Rhaenys, of course - and his father sat with his head in his palms, obviously exhausted. Jon Connington had laid a hand on the King’s shoulder in support. Jon had to knock on the door to get his attention.

Rhaegar Targaryen lifted his head from his hands - almost arduously - and focused his attention on his bastard son, “What can I do for you, Jon?”

Jon fidgeted. “I have a few things I’d like to ask of you … In private, if I could,” Jon said, glancing at the true born Targaryens that silently observed the King’s and his bastard’s exchange.

“Of course,” Rhaegar nodded, “It’s good that you’ve come here, actually. I have matters I’d like to discuss with you, actually.” Jon Connington grunted at his side, and Barristan Selmy led Jon’s relatives out . Joffrey had to be shaken awake from his slumber, but they quickly followed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard out. Joffrey scoffed at Jon as he passed him, but he ignored the insult.

The King smiled at him, “What would you ask of me?” He seemed to be trying to make Jon feel welcomed, but the presence of Jon Connington negated his efforts.

Jon cleared his throat, and put on a mask of maturity. “Earlier today,” Jon started, “I received a letter from Winterfell. I was informed of an upcoming wedding between my cousin, Robb, and Alys Karstark. I realize it has only been a short period of time since we returned to King’s Landing, but I would like to request permission to attend his wedding.”

His father simply smiled, “Of course. It is quite convenient, actually, as I’ve prepared a group of criminals to be sent to the Night’s Watch, as well as a stock of food. If it isn’t too much trouble, perhaps you could lead a caravan to Castle Black -”

“Yes. Of course,” Jon said immediately. It had been only a short period of time since he had seen Samwell, but he had missed him dearly already. So, Jon jumped on the excuse to see him again. It also provided him with the opportunity of visiting his uncle Benjen, too.

“Very good. Also,” Rhaegar pulled out a document, “Once you’ve reached Winterfell, I would also like you to give your father this.” He rolled it up an sealed it with wax, then handed it to Jon.

He took it hesitantly, “What is it?”

“An offering to Lord Stark. I would ask him if he would like his second son to squire for Oswell Whent -”

 _You give me the Kingslayer while my true born cousin gets the guardian who I grew up with,_ Jon thought bitterly.

“- And a marriage proposal between your brother, Joffrey, and your cousin, Sansa.”

“Oh, another union between a Stark and Targaryen. Because that worked out so _well last time_ ,” Jon snapped. He immediately regretted his words after he said it, and silenced himself.

“Mind your words, boy!” Jon Connington’s face flushed with rage, “You are talking to the King!”

Rhaegar’s mouth opened, supposedly to retort Connington, but Jon apologized before he could say anything, “Pardon me, father. Lord Connington is right, I spoke out of turn.” Jon’s eyes fell to his feet.

“No, your outrage is understandable,” Rhaegar shook his head, “Regardless, I’d still like you to complete the task I have trusted with you. You may go north, and you will deliver  
these supplies and men to Castle Black, as well as this letter to your uncle. And attend your cousins wedding -”

Jon nodded. He was embarrassed by his own outburst, and was just eager to leave.

“- And you will return in time for your own wedding.”

*

Jon took a bag of stags and dragons with him when he left for the Street of Steel. He had asked Uther and Loras if either of them wanted to come with him, but both refused, though Loras did recommend a shop owned by a “Tobho Mott.” He was unsure whether or not it would’ve been wise to take Ghost with him, as he reasoned that the huge direwolf would have terrified the smallfolk.

He was glad he did, though, as when the citizens of King’s Landing saw his wolf, they would immediately clear a path for him - whether out of recognizing him, or fear of the direwolf, he did not care that much. The people of the city were disgusting - being covered in mud and grime as much as the streets.

His uncle had always taught him to be kind to the smallfolk, but he couldn’t help but feel a natural aversion towards them. Despite his efforts, he could not force himself to be compassionate to them. Jon was more disgusted at himself than the smallfolk, in the end. His apathy made him feel disappointed in himself.

For each smithy, the smiths made Jon tie Ghost to a post outside. He was reluctant to oblige at first, refusing and skipping the first few smiths that asked him to that before realizing that it would be a reoccurring theme with each other shop, and reasoning that he couldn’t keep skipping every shop, he was forced to comply.

He stopped to inspect the items they had on display. In one of the more expensive shops, Jon bought a new blade - a half and a hand sword, tapered to thrust as well as slash. It was an impressive piece of metal, and it’s weight and size was nearly perfect for Jon, and the Kingslayer probably would’ve approved of it. Jon still continued up Visenya’s hill, wondering what else he could find in the street, as well as trying to find Tobho Mott’s shop - he realized that he probably should have asked Loras where it was. Jon felt foolish.

As he continued up the hill, he purchased a few small pieces of armour. Near the peak of Visenya’s hill sat a huge building, with a sign inscribed near the entrance indicating the owner was a man by the name of Tobho Mott. Jon realized that this was the shop he had been searching for. The building’s position at the top of the hill indicated the status and wealth of the owner.

Another sign of the owner’s wealth was the house itself. The Blacksmith’s house was larger than all other building on the Street of Steel, built out of timber and plaster. Its upper stories, where Jon could only assume the smith actually lived, towered over the streets. The building’s entrance had ebony and weirwood doors with a carving of a hunting scene, and was guarded by two knights armoured in suits made to resemble a griffin and unicorn.

Jon approached the doors cautiously, “May I see the smith?”

The guards both attempted to seem solemn and unmoved, but the way they hesitated to answer and how their eyes darted to Jon’s direwolf indicated at their fear. After a moment, one of them regained their senses and allowed Jon in, though with the condition that Jon would keep his direwolf tied to a post outside.

When inside, Jon had to wait a few moments until being greeted by a slim serving girl, who promised that the blacksmith would meet him soon. After a period of time that would never be constituted as “soon,” Tobho Mott finally appeared.

“Good day, sir,” the smith said, “How may I help you today?”

Jon thinned his lips. He had not been forced to wait for so long in the last smiths he visited, and his patience had been thinned. “I’d like to see your armoury,” He answered, harsher than he meant to.

The man nodded, “Of course,” he said, and motioned for Jon to follow him. “I must warn you, my prices and not cheap, but my works are unequalled in all of the Seven Kingdoms! Let me tell you, Loras Tyrell - that Knight of Flowers - he buys all his armour from me -”

“- I know. He told me of your shop.”

Tobho Mott flinched, then studied Jon. “Aye. Aristocratic, are you? I can see that now. If I knew that I would’ve met you sooner.”

Jon shrugged, “Your serving girl never asked.”

“Oh well,” He stopped, and pushed against a door, “Here we are. I don’t usually store items - not how I like to do my business, so these things here are mostly just unsuccessful projects or orders that never sold. Not my best stuff, I must tell you, though I’ll be happy to take commissions. Newer stuff is at the back.”

Jon nodded, and entered the room.

None of what he saw was too interesting at first, but one particular piece of armour caught his eye. Jon held it up to a torch so he got examine it better, and he could clearly see the craftsmanship that went into it.

It was a helmet, tinned to give the appearance of silver, though it had the first signs of rust developing. The visor depicted the face of a youthful, clean shaven male, and the helm portrayed the image of a lion. The two designs created the image similar to as if the helmet also wore its own helmet - or it could also be interpreted as the man depicted on the visor was being eaten by the lion. The latter interpretation took some imagination, though.

Jon gently slid the helmet onto his head - it was a bit too large, but Jon was determined to purchase the helmet.

“I want this helmet,” Jon held the helmet under the crook of his arm.

Tobho took the helmet from Jon, examining it. “Ah, good eye. I’ve forgotten that I even made this thing. You’ll want the rust off, too, I’m guessing?”

Jon nodded, “I’d like it fitted to my head, as well.” Jon paused, “Can you reforge the helm into a wolf, instead of a lion, too?”

“I’ll have to take a few measurements,” the smith inspected the helmet some more, “This’ll cost… Sixty dragons.”

Jon sputtered.

Tobho Mott shrugged, “I told you my prices aren’t cheap.”

Jon thinned his lips, “Ten dragons.”

It was Tobho’s turn to sputter, “You trying to scam me, boy? I’ll settle for fifty.”

“Twenty.”

“Forty-five.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Thirty. Curses, boy! I thought you were an aristocrat! Don’t you have your own stash of gold for you to spend on frivolous things?”

“Not all nobles are rich,” Jon said, but he realized as soon as he said it that it was a weak argument, as he had been the Lord of Harrenhal.

“You shouldn’t have come to my shop, then, if you’re not willing to spend a few dragons. The lowest I’ll go for is thirty.”

Jon nodded, suddenly more cooperative at the realization of his new status as one of the wealthiest nobles in the Seven Kingdoms, “Thirty, then.”

The smith seemed surprised at his sudden compliance, but nodded nonetheless. “I’ll have it ready by next week,” he said, and Jon left his shop.

The journey from Tobho’s shop back to the Red Keep felt shorter, now that he wasn’t constantly stopping at every other shop.

He returned a week later, and surprised the smith by paying sixty dragons for the helmet.

*

 

Harrenhal’s towers loomed over them as they entered its gates.

The stories Jon have had heard of the castle were all true, it seemed. Its towers were of dizzying size, with equally monstrous walls - Jon did not fault Aegon the Conqueror for resorting to his dragons instead of besieging the daunting stronghold.

It covered three times as much ground as Winterfell, and that was no easy task. At first, Jon doubted the credibility of such claims that Harrenhal was haunted, but House Whent had let many sections of the citadel decay, contributing a haunting atmosphere to the great castle. Harrenhal laid on the north shore of the God’s Eye, a hub of the Riverlands.

Jon had always thought it curious how the Riverlands always seemed to have the most folklore and tales attributed to the are - the Isle of Faces, the Ghost of High Heart, and of course the aforementioned haunted Harrenhal. It wasn’t that surprising, the more he thought about it, that the Riverland’s smallfolk would be so superstitious, considering how frequently the lands would be used as a battleground for conflicts and wars. In fact, Ghost had almost scared a young man half to death, though Jon could not fault him for his fear. His companion really did seem like a beast from the stories, with his white fur and red eyes.

On their way to Harrenhal, they had come across multiple riverlanders telling them of a woods witch active near the hill of High Heart - supposed the same one as the Ghost of High Heart. They told of how she would tell them their future - though with words as cryptic as someone in her profession would use.

Jon doubted the stories, but he couldn’t but feel the least bit curious at the possibility of having his future told. He shook those thoughts away, and returned his attention to his business at Harrenhal.

“Welcome, Lord Jon!” Harrenhal’s castellan called, “It is a pleasure to finally meet our young lord, at last.”

Jon stepped forward with Ghost padding along side him, and shook the man’s hand, “I’m delighted to meet you as well, governor. I’m sure I will be equally happy to find that Harrenhal has been in good hands. May I ask for your name?”

“Of course, lord. My name is Wymond,” the castellan said, impressing Jon by the lack of fear he showed towards his wolf. He continued to introduce Jon to his wife, Matilda, and his son, William, who hid behind his mother’s skirts at the sight of Ghost. After the welcoming, Wymond led Jon and his party to their quarters.

Jon’s party was composed of him and Uther, with the rest being Night’s Watch members and future recruits. It was not an impressive bunch, mostly consisting of petty criminals, or the occasional volunteer that held no prospects in life. Jon found the group pitiful, not at all up to the standards that he imagined the Night’s Watch would have.

“Say what you will, but I consider this an improvement to the last bunch I scrounged up in King’s Landing,” The wandering crow, Yoren, said in reply to when Jon voiced his thoughts, “There was a scary trio - so bad we had to keep them in cages. We had to leave them during a bandit attack. Whether they survived or died in flames, I do not know.”

While his party members rested in their chambers, Jon sought Wymond, intending to discuss bringing some food and armour with them to donate to the Night’s Watch.

“I could probably arrange it,” Wymond said, “The armour will be no problem, but we won’t be collecting taxes until next month, however, so the food will have to come out of the granary.”

Jon shrugged, “This summer has been the longest in Westerosi history.”

“Yes, indeed. I suppose I could let you take a portion of the grain in the storehouse before your party leaves,” Wymond agreed, almost absent-mindedly, “But a long summer only means an even longer winter.”

*

They left two days later, with a dozen carts of arms and food, though they did not follow the kingsroad.

Instead of continuing north, Jon found himself taking a detour west, to the High Heart.

Uther mocked him for believing in superstitions and old wives tales, and Yoren grumbled on about how they should be trying to get to Harrenhal as quick as possible. Jon himself felt foolish - each day they wasted raised the possibility that he would miss Robb’s wedding, but a part of him would not let him rest until he saw the woods witch with his own eyes.

They made good time, despite the distance, and it was night when the reached the tall hill. A small storm seemed to be brewing, and the High Heart stood above the rain. Despite that, Jon had them camp on the plains east of the actual hill, an area circled by weirwood stumps and mud puddles - it would’ve taken them until midnight to reach the top of the hill.

Whilst the party members slept, Jon and a reluctant Uther road around the area searching for the supposed Ghost of High Heart. The direwolf Ghost was off hunting again.

“This is stupid,” the Hightower grumbled, “I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. Why did I agree to come with you?”

Jon ignored him, undeterred. The gusts blew strongly, and Jon’s caped blew furiously behind him, sometimes smacking the Hightower.

The sun was beginning to rise when the two boys rode back to camp, exhausted and sleep-deprived but with nothing to show for it. Yoren and two other future Night Watch recruits had the watch, and they greeted them as Jon and Uther approached the camp.

“Found your little fairy tale?” Yoren mocked, “I though not. We shouldn’t have been wasting time with bed-time stories… When should we pack?”

Jon held his hand out. “Another day,” he said, and left Yoren cursing and raving. He was right, Jon knew, but for some odd reason he was determined to catch a glimpse of the Ghost. It was strange, considering that when he lived in Winterfell, he was the most sceptical of Old Nan’s stories. Jon was sure that if Robb saw him now, he would be laughing.

Another day passed again, and the moon soon replaced the sun that had been shining in the sky. That night was just as wild as the last, if not more. The wind was howling with the wolves, like a duet in a song. Jon sat by a fire, a skin of water instead of wine in his hand, with Ghost sitting lazily by his side. Many of the party members had been already asleep or preparing to retire for the night when Uther came to Jon, reporting of a small and pale woman creeping around the camp.

Jon had him bring her to his fire. The old woman had hair as white as Ghost’s, and the fire made her eyes look almost the same colour’s as Ghost’s, too. Jon offered her his water as she sat down by him by the fire, drinking deep. Ghost watched the dwarf woman as water ran down her chin, bored. When she lowered the skin, Jon leaned forward towards her.

“Are you the Ghost of High Heart?” He asked, eagerly.

She handed him back his water, “About as much a ghost as your wolf there, Bastard Prince. Yes, I am the old woman you seek.”

Jon thinned his lips nervously, “I’ve heard you can see the future.”

The dwarf woman met his eyes, and smiled. Cold fingers walked down Jon’s neck. “The power of dreams is powerful in you, too. I know. I know your kind. I have seen it. The blood of the North flows through your veins, as well as the blood of the dragons…” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she frightened Jon. The dwarf woman had been sitting a not inconsiderable distance from Jon, but she suddenly appeared beside him.

“Bastard Prince,” She held his arm in a grip of iron, “Your blood is the blood that can raise kings. Your wife will be called a queen, but you will never wear a crown yourself… Look into the fire! Look, can you see it?” Her voice rose form the whisper that it once was, turning into a noise that could mirror a dragon’s roar.

Jon found himself speechless, and scared - he was suddenly the child he used to be, first arriving at Winterfell and scared that his cousins will be the same as his Targaryen relatives. Regret filled him, regret that he invited such a person to share a drink with him, regret that he didn’t listen to Uther and Yoren and shrugged off the riverfolk’s urban legends.

His eyes followed where the dwarf woman pointed, staring into the flames. It had been weak and almost extinguished before, but suddenly it was as furious as the night’s winds. It grew more before his eyes, rising from its place and into the heavens above him.

The smoke choked Jon, and he felt himself light headed. Suddenly, _he stood before a monster with two smouldering red pits for eyes, and black teeth in a mouth that formed a cruel and evil grin._

_If he had been in his right mind, Jon would’ve turned and ran, but he could not seem to control his limbs. Instead, he matched the creature’s cruel grin, but his smile was bordering on a grimace. In any other case, fear would be the only emotion Jon should have felt, facing such a creature. There was a tinge of it, but another feeling drowned it out - it was the feeling a man had after winning a battle. Victory._

I’ve won _, was all Jon thought before the same camp fire as before suddenly consumed him. He burned, and although Jon knew it was just a dream, he could still feel every muscle and bone in his body turning into ashes as the fire burned and burned him. Jon heard himself scream, and then he…_

He was lying flat, alive, holding someone’s hand, the scream he gave still raw in his throat.

Jon opened his eyes, and saw the clear blue eyes of Uther. He looked around, and saw men holding swords around him, as if guarding him.

“Begone, you witch!” Jon could hear Yoren’s voice say. He had always drawn his own sword, and was pointing it towards the Ghost. The only thing that stood between the dwarf woman and the wandering crow was Jon’s own Ghost, who looked at everyone, as if bored.

Despite all the sword pointed at her, the dwarf woman remained calm, and stared at Jon. “You saw it, didn’t you? You breathed your last breath, didn’t you? Do not dare interpret what you have seen. You may be sure of its meaning, but you could still be proven wrong,” She said, and lightning cracked and thunder rolled across the hills, and the rain fell in blinding sheets. The dwarf woman vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

Jon felt himself grow light headed again, and his eyes felt heavy as his head laid on Uther’s leg…

_Just as suddenly as before, Jon was dreaming once again. He was standing in a great hall - the Red Keep’s great hall. At the tables sat his cousins of Winterfell, his uncle, his father, his siblings - They all sat silently, none taking a bite out of the meals set before them._

_“This is the one?” A man said. Jon lifted his head, and looked at the men who sat at the dais. Before Jon, were Targaryen kings, both great and terrible, and they sat and stared at him, judging. Jon recognized the man as Aegon the Conqueror._

_“He isn’t Valyrian in the slightest!” A boy Jon recognized as Daeron the Young Dragon said._

_“No, his Stark blood overpowers his Valyrian blood,” Maegor the Cruel said, and shook his head, “I’m disappointed. He’s just a boy - hardly the person I imagined him to be. Meek and skinny - more likely to piss his pants during battle than winning one.”_

_“Being as young as he is, it only means he has more time to grow and learn,” Jaehaerys the Conciliator defended, “And there to him than how fast he can swing a blade or how much muscle he wears on his body.”_

_“Very true,” Daeron the Good agreed, “Besides, there is very little room for argument. The Gods flipped a coin, and it landed on ‘great’ with this one, and so he will be.”_

_Aegon the Unworthy laughed. “Admittedly, I’m the same as Maegor when I saw I overestimated what I imagined him to be,” he cackled, “Still better than me, though, eh?”_

_“Yes, better than nothing,” Aerys the Mad grinned psychotically._

_“Enough to father a king,” Aegon the Dragon roared, “But only if he dies!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE BALLS
> 
> Will also be going on a hiatus. Cheers!


	15. Catelyn I

At first glance, one would assume Winterfell would be as cold as its name implies. Brandon the Builder built the castle over hot springs, however, and so scalding waters rushed through its walls and drove the chill away.

Catelyn’s chambers were the warmest of all of Winterfell’s. The warmth helped her transition from Riverrun to House Stark’s ancestral fortress, but a part of her still yearned the days of when she was still a child, frolicking along side Lysa and Edmure. She had planned to travel down to Riverrun to see her father.

They held Robb’s wedding a month ago, and Alys Karstark had long since become integrated as apart of the family. Jon Snow had ridden up from King’s Landing to attend the event, bringing offers from the King with him. Soon after the wedding, he rode up to the wall, and then he would ride south. Catelyn was to go south to Riverrun with Jon when he returned and stopped at Winterfell.

Catelyn had been overjoyed when she first heard of the offers Jon brought with him from the King - any mother would have had the same reaction if they learned that their daughter was to marry a prince and their son would squire under a Kingsguard. Especially one who practically raised their nephew with them.

With all that considered, she believed she could be excused for being confused as to why her husband was not as thrilled.

”It’s not as if he gave me much of a choice to begin with - but having Jon deliver the message? Is his own family all just pawns to him, as well?” He grumbled, as she laid on his chest.

Catelyn frowned. She had brought up the offer believing that her husband’s prior anger when first learning of the offer would have cleared up, and he would be able to decide with a clear head.

“I will refuse him,” Eddard said, but this time, his voice was thick with doubt instead of anger.

She sat up from her place on her husband’s chest. “You cannot. You must not.”

Her Ned shook his head, “Sansa will marry a man of the North. There is no reason for Bran to become a squire, the North holds no value for knighthood. I refuse to send two of my children to the snake pit that is King’s Landing.”

“I hope you do not intend to speak of the capital in such a manner when you refuse Rhaegar. The wounds of Robert’s Rebellion have not yet fully healed, Ned, and the South is still weary of us. Rhaegar is king now, and if you refuse an offer as generous as this, he will suspect you still oppose him.”

Ned shook his head, “Rhaegar will never try to start another civil war. House Stark is still tied to House Tully and Arryn - such aggressions will result in a war on the level of Robert’s Rebellion.”

“You cannot presume to know what occurs in the head of another man, especially one such as Rhaegar,” she said, “Since the rebellion, he’s had to keep a tight grip on the Seven Kingdoms. When Rhaegar came to Winterfell to take his son back, you looked as if you would nearly kill him. Think about what he is offering, Ned, he is showering you with great honours, you can not throw them back at his face.

“Honours?” Ned laughed bitterly.

“In his eyes,” she said, “As well as the eyes of all the Lords of Westeros. Many men would kill for the chance of having their daughter married to a prince, and their son squiring for the Kingsguard.”

He shook his head, turning away from her.

“Accept the offer. House Stark will be safer with blood ties to the Crown,” she blazed, now frustrated by her husband’s stubbornness, “He offers his son in marriage to our daughter, and our son a place next to a Kingsguard. Sansa could someday become queen, and Bran could become a knight of the Kingsguard.”

“Yes, Sansa would be married to the boy second-in-line for the throne. Ahead of Jon, who is in every way more capable than anyone ever gives him credit to be - yet Joffrey is still placed before him, even thought he is… Joffrey is…”

Catelyn finished for him, “A son of House Targaryen and Lannister. Ned, I understand your love for your sister’s child, but Jon is receiving Harrenhal, and potentially a daughter of House Tyrell. Is that not good enough for him? Do you truly wish to see him wearing a crown?”

Ned breathed, “No… No, I would never wish such a curse on him. I’m - I’m sorry Cat, I’m just… You’re right. I’ll tell Jon I accepted Rhaegar’s offer after he come back down from the Wall. Bran and Sansa can go with him back down to King’s Landing then.” He rubbed his face, “I’m sorry, I’m not fit to make decisions like these. Brandon should have been Lord of Winterfell, he would be better at this. I should have never become the head of House Stark.”

“No, Ned, you are a fine lord,” Catelyn said, “Do not think such things. Brandon is dead, and his cup has passed to you, and you must drink from it, like it or not.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, head hung as if in defeat. Catelyn softened then, to see his pain. Eddard Stark had married her in Brandon's place, as custom decreed, but the shadow of his dead brother still lay between them.

She was about to go to comfort him, when a knock came at their door. Ned turned, frowning, “What is it?”

The guard’s voice answered, “Jon Snow has returned from the wall, and begs urgent audience.”

Such news had been a surprise to both Catelyn and Ned. Jon had not been expected to return from the wall for another fortnight, and it had only been a few weeks since he left Winterfell.

Catelyn silently wondered why Jon had came back to Winterfell so soon. Her husband told the guard to bring him in.

Ned quickly grabbed a heavy robe from his wardrobe and slipped it on, and Catelyn brought her heavy fur blankets up to cover all her body. Jon Snow was shown in.

The boy had a nervous look about him, and he hands shook as they protectively held a clothed glass jar. “Lord Stark,” he said to Ned, “I apologize for disturbing you, but I have grim tidings that I believe you must be made aware of.”

Catelyn had flinched at Jon’s solemn way of addressing Ned. The nephew had always been close to his uncle, so it was rare for Jon to be so formal with him, unless during a ceremony. It gave Catelyn a clue as to the gravity of what Jon had to say, and made her all the more curious as to what could be in his jar.

Ned frowned, a concerned expression forming on his face. “Jon? What is it?”

The boy’s face darkened, and suddenly Catelyn noticed the deep bags under his eyes. He pulled back the cloth, in such a manner that suggested that he did not wish to do so, but had to. The cloth let the jar’s contents to be seen clearly, revealing a severed hand. It was grisly pale thing with black fingers, and twitched and stirred in its cage.

Under the weight of her furs, Catelyn shivered. Ned stared at the thing, as scared as Catelyn but not showing it.

“A few months ago, Benjen took some men beyond the wall, but they didn’t return alive, and instead as corpses. During the night, they rose and attacked several men of the Night’s Watch,” Jon breathed, “The watch desperately needs more men. The dead are rising and come to invade the lands of the living, and the wall is the only buffer we have between the lands of Westeros and the lands beyond the wall. I tell no false tales - this hand is the hand of a wight. One of the corpses that rose as if it still lived.”

It took a moment for Catelyn to regain her thoughts. “Jon… Jon, you are telling the truth? You are sure?”

He nodded, “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

She looked to Ned, waiting for what his response. He still stared at the thing.

When he finally spoke, his voice had been one of a lord, but Catelyn heard the terror that lied beneath the authority. “I am calling my banners,” He said, “I believe you, Jon, and what lies beyond the wall has now been considered a potential threat to the Seven Kingdoms, and it is my duty to travel to the Wall to end these threats.”

Jon gave a sigh of relief. Catelyn had not been so glad. She had accepted Sansa and Bran going to the south, but with her husband going north - potentially to fight a great danger - she didn’t think she could bear it.

Ned turned to her, “Robb will govern Winterfell in my place. You may still go south with Jon to Riverrun, but I trust you to teach him all he needs to know once you return, and five your voice in all things big and small.”

She nodded, but said nothing. The absence of her husband will pain her, just as it did when he left to fight in the Greyjoy rebellion. Waiting every day, waking up with the knowledge that her Ned could have died fighting without her even knowing - She hoped that he will return to her just as he did when Balon Greyjoy was defeated.

Jon spoke again, “And, um, have you decided on King Rhaegar’s offer, yet? I realize I’ve returned a bit earlier than you expected, so I understand if you haven’t.”

“We have. We accept Rhaegar’s offers, and Sansa and Bran will accompany you and my wife south,” He answered.

The boy bowed his head, “Very well. That will be all.”

Ned nodded his head back, “Your chambers are the same ones you occupied when you fostered at Winterfell. They’re not quite prepared yet, so I’ll have a servant fix them for you. Goodnight, Jon.”

With that, Jon Snow left her chambers.

“Will we be telling the children next morning?” She asked.

“Maybe. Preparations must be made. It will be a fortnight before you are all ready to depart, and even longer for my banners to gather. Regardless of their enthusiasm, the children will want to enjoy their last few days at Winterfell. And so will I.”

*

The view from her father’s chambers were magnificent. The waters ran around the edges of Riverrun’s walls, flowing in a peaceful drift. The sight helped calmed Catelyn, and provided her with some much needed relaxation.

The source of her troubles crumpled between her fingers, the thin papyrus carrying much weight in her hands.

 _”She is sick from grief,”_ She remembered Ned say immediately after she read to him the contents of the letter.

She had agreed with him, but the letter had been hidden in such a way that suggested it to be beyond mere lamentation. The message had been carefully hidden, and Lysa must’ve known it would have meant death if her letter had fallen in the wrong hands - a part of her doubted it was mere suspicion.

 _”You cannot tell anyone,”_ He said, _”Not yet, at least. Once I return from the wall, we’ll find out if there is any truth in this accusation.”_

The parchment arrived a few days just before she had left Winterfell, and it made her regret urging her husband to accept Rhaegar’s demands - she could have been potentially sending her son and daughter to the same snake pit where the murderers of her sister’s husband _potentially_ waited.

Lysa already had her reputation as being mad, though, and the rivalry between her and the Lannisters had been pervasive enough that even the North heard of it. Many people in Westeros had already heard of her outbursts and accusations, which were also a major contributing factor to her and her husband’s exit from court.

Even if Lysa’s accusations had any truth in them, the Lannisters wouldn’t have had any reason to be aggressive to Sansa or Bran - the most she could think of was their blood ties to Jon Snow, but Sansa was being married to Joffrey Targaryen, and Jon Snow had become the squire of Jaime Lannister.

The Kingslayer had been in Jon’s company, and was not a welcomed presence in Winterfell. But, Catelyn did not see any hatred for any of them when she looked into his eyes, even none for her husband. He had mostly been hidden away from them during their party’s time at Winterfell, and even during their trek south.

A knock came from the chamber door, and Riverrun’s maester entered the room after Catelyn permitted him.

“Thank you for watching over him, my lady,” He bowed his head, “If you would like, I can take care of him now.”

Lord Hoster Tully had once been tall and broad, with a full head of brown hair. But old age had taken its toll, and he had been struck with illness.

It pained Catelyn to see him in such a state - she had always remembered him as a proud and fierce man during her youth, it was difficult to believe the man resting in front of her was the same man as the one when she was younger. She left him with the maester, yearning for the days of her youth.

It had been mid-day, and she promised to have lunch with Edmure and her children. Jon Snow had been with them as well, and Edmure seemed to take great interest in the bastard prince. Jon’s upcoming Lordship of Harrenhal, as well as his engagement to Margaery Tyrell had been the first discussion they had over their meals.

Jon’s position as Lord of Harrenhal would have made him House Tully’s most powerful vassal, so Catelyn thought it wise of Edmure to be amiable to Jon, thought she doubted it was deliberate as that seemed to be his usual way of addressing people.

Catelyn’s mother had been a daughter of House Whent, and House Whent used to be the riverland’s dominant power, not accounting House Tully. Her uncle, Brynden, used to say that she would grow to become as beautiful as her mother, but Minasa Whent had died young, and Catelyn could scarce recreate a clear image of her in her mind.

Sansa and Jon had both listened to Edmure’s teachings of the Riverlands eagerly, though Bran had been more interested in the topic of his grand uncle. While Sansa had been more interested in the romantics of the South, Jon was more absorbed with the history of the lands.

Knowing Jon, it was little surprise why he preferred such topics. Whenever Edmure tried to gouge more conversation out of Jon by mentioning Margaery Tyrell, he would blush fiercely - even more so than Sansa when she talked about Joffrey Targaryen. Bran simply laughed at both of them.

Although Edmure did tease him a bit, he let the subject rest after Catelyn’s discouragements. Instead, he began telling tales of the Blackfish. Bran took significantly more interest in such stories.

“Why do they call him the Blackfish?” Bran asked, wide eyed.

“Many reasons, my boy.” Edmure had smiled. “My father put the idea in Brynden’s head, quite by accident, he would always emphasize while retelling me the story, but Brynden decided that he liked it. Made his leaping trout a black one after that, and my father would always say he only did it to fluster him. Little brothers are naturally inclined to do that - your mother here could probably vouch for that.”

That earned a snort from her.

“I’m to squire for Ser Oswell Whent,” Bran said, “Do you think I will become as great a knight as Brynden?”

“It would make me very proud if you did,” Edmure rubbed Bran’s head. He turned to Jon then. “You’re the squire for the Kingslayer, are you not? You’ll probably be knighted soon enough, judging by what I’ve seen of you on the courtyard. I tell these stories not just to glorify mine own uncle, but to teach you that younger brothers could earn just as much glory as their elder brothers.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably as the attention turned to him, but nodded.

Edmure smiled at him, “You’re getting Harrenhal, my boy, and the daughter of the warden of the Reach. I’d say you’ve already have yourself quite the reputation - but you’re still young, with many years ahead of you. Use those years, and you can become a man even greater than the Blackfish.”

“He is very right, Jon,” Catelyn had decided to say, “I remember when you and Robb were merely boys, you two would always be playing knights together. You used to idolise the Dragonknight so much that you would also pretend to be him. You’re a man now. You no longer have to pretend to be him.”

Edmure nodded. “You could be an even greater Targaryen then your brother. Or, well, what name are you going to take for yourself?”

Jon shrugged, “Something Valyrian. Augustos, probably. It means ‘venerable,’ and it used to be the name of one of House Targaryen’s ancient dragonlords during the Freehold.”

“Augustos, eh?’ Edmure smiled, “A good name, don’t you think, Cat?”

She nodded in agreement, “Yes. Venerable… I’m sure one day you’ll prove yourself to be worthy of that name. Men will call you that, and they will behold you as Jon Augustos, Lord of Harrenhal. His father’s son.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those whom it may concern...  
> Hello! As you may have noticed, the title of this fic has changed, and so had a few of its pairings.  
> Now, a lot of you may be thinking why that could be, and I'll tell you, but I must apologize for the massive wall of text that will follow...
> 
> This fanfic was never supposed to be a serious thing. It was supposed to only be a few chapters (maybe 3 or 4) but as I tried to flesh out the characters and the world, it became much longer than I expected. Although, despite my attempts to create understandable characters, I still tried to follow the basic plot I set up before this story became so bloated. Due to this, I saw myself dragging out chapters about nothing, so, I added new events and plot points to make the story seem as if it is an actual, well, story.
> 
> But the thing is, a lot of the plot points I added was from another completely different fic I wanted to write. Now, because of this, I've decided to combine the two stories into one. Due to this drastic change, a lot of key elements (such as the pairings...) have to change. Jon/Arianne may not be the end game pairing, and I understand a lot of you may be disappointed with that fact. I understand, I was also very frustrated when I realized I had to combine two fics that I wanted to write. If I could, I would have written two different stories, but I didn't want to have to force myself to write the same scenes over and over again. 
> 
> Because I'm trying to shape this fanfic into an actual coherent story, the chapters may have to come out over much longer periods of time - yes, even longer now. I'm sorry. 
> 
> To be completely honest, I was never satisfied with this story to begin with. I've thought about discontinuing it many times, so I could just jump into writing the actual story I wanted to write. Despite what you may think, I am still a relatively inexperienced writer. I am not a master at crafting complex and layered characters, but hey, I'm glad to see some people are actually enjoying the story(I hope)
> 
> Regardless, I hope I can still continue writing chapters, and you will all continue reading them, but due to these recent turn of events, I would understand if you dont. Oh well. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you have a nice day!


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